The Long Way Home
by ruby gillis
Summary: Pat's twin daughters, Betsey and Judith, are as different as twins can be, but they have never been separated until rebellious Judy is sent away to the Island for the summer. Can the girls learn to live apart?
1. Sent to Coventry

Patricia Gordon went out into the brilliant sunset world. She was very nearly perfectly happy: her homey, womanly soul desired no more than a cosy home—she had that in the dear little slate-roofed bungalow that her husband had built for them not so many years ago—a place where all who entered it felt immediately welcome and at ease. That was another thing Pat wanted very much out of life—to have people always glad to come to her and always a little sorry to go away. But not _too_ sorry—she was one of the soft-souled folk who do not like to see others feel pain of any kind. It is safe to say that she succeeded in this endeavor as well, for people who came to visit the Gordons were always very glad they did, and people who went away did so contentedly, and always looked forward to the time of their next visit.

She wanted her home to be lovely, because she loved it; she wanted that love to show in the polished, rosy apple-wood floors, in the shine and luster of the mahogany furniture, in the placement of plump, inviting cushions and the delicate, Japanese-blossom china set on the table for meals. She also wanted the food to go on these plates to be good and beautiful and nourishing to body and soul. It is safe to say again that she very nearly almost succeeded in this as well.

But even more than she loved her home, Pat loved her family. She ran down the lane like a girl each evening at the start of dusk to wait for Hilary—dear, darling Hilary, who had been so steady and patient and loving with her, always. Standing there amid the jonquils that grew tall around the gate she looked every inch the girl she had been many years ago at Silver Bush—oh, _still_ a little pang welted against her heart at the thought of Silver Bush!—but not _too_ much of a pang. Pat's home and life were here now, in the little, quiet, friendly neighborhood just outside of Toronto.

Besides Hilary—whom Pat still referred to affectionately sometimes as 'darling Jingle'—there were the girls. Pat, who could not quite reconcile herself to being grown up at times never had any problem feeling a mother to her girls. Why, she had been their mother for ever and ever in her heart—long before Dr. Rose had placed both of the pink-blanketed bundles in her arms on that day sixteen years ago. Pat had looked into those two pairs of eyes—one pair a shining, shimmering amber, like the color of brook water running over autumn leaves, and the other pair a deep dark gray, like Hilary's behind his spectacles. From that moment on, her home had been wherever they four might be together: Pat, and Hilary and Betsey and Judith.

Except for those mismatched eyes, the Gordon girls were as alike as any two people could be. The same high, white brows, the same little, pointed chins, the same small, kittenish noses and the same red, full lips. Each girl had a sweep of long, dark hair—so dark as to be almost the same color as the lustrous mahogany that Pat shined so often.

But if they looked alike on the outsides, that was where the similarities ended. Betsey was—well, she was _Betsey_. She was as sweet and wholesome and good as her name implied. She had the tendency to love things fiercely and utterly, as Pat had in her childhood, and in quiet moments she poured her soul into the little sketchbook which held a dozen drawings of fairyland—that was Hilary's gift to her. Pat had never had any trouble with Betsey, except when they had had to cut down three of the old spruce trees by the gate. Oh, Betsey _understood_ that the trees had been carried away with rot, but she could not accept the fact that they should not stand there, always. She _loved_ them and it had been very hard on her to have them cut down and split into kindling for the fire that burned in the wide, sandstone hearth o' winter nights.

"It makes us tree _cannibals_!" she had cried, and refused for the whole season to gather round the crackling fire, roasting marshmallows and drinking hot cider. But then spring had come, and Betsey began to love the new view that had been created in the tree's absence—one could see all the way to the distant hazy purple hills, now.

If there was anything Pat could have given to Betsey it would have been the gift of confidence—the girl was shy around those whom she did not know intimately—and as a result, she did not know very many people intimately at all. She had no real girl-friends, and oftentimes seemed solitary almost to the point of loneliness. Almost—but not quite. For Betsey could never be really lonely—not with Judith around.

Judith had been bold from the day she was born—at scarce than a minute or two old she had raised her head to take keen look of her surroundings with those gray eyes of hers. At an hour old she had bitten the doctor's finger with her tough little gums. She had learnt to run before she learnt to walk, began to talk at eleven months, when it had taken Betsey sixteen. Dr. Rose had been afraid that Betsey never _would_ learn to talk, since she had Judith to do it for her. This had resulted in Judith being taken away to the neighbor's house for a week, but in the end the experiment had not worked: neither twin would speak at all except to sob for the other.

The girls had never been separated again—not even for a night. And they had never spent the night away from home. Judith, who had a gaggle of girl-friends from the time she could walk and talk and go to school, was always being invited somewhere or another for a 'sleepover.' But she always refused to go. She didn't care to sleep anywhere but her own bed. Judith was very particular about her bed and would not go to sleep unless she was tucked snugly in by her father under the silk sheets that Aunt Rae had given her, from China. Even at sixteen she had a nightly ritual of saying good-night to all the things she loved—her Teddy bears and the framed photo of Aunt 'Cuddles,' the potted geranium on her night-table that had really lived remarkably longer than any potted geranium should, and the slim birch tree outside her window, which grew a little too close to the house so that it always seemed as though it were a part of it.

That birch tree should really have been cut down years ago. Pat, who hated to have any beautiful thing changed, admitted it readily. Hilary said that its roots were interfering with the house's foundation. Even Betsey, who considered the killing of a tree to be a mortal sin, would rather save her dear home, in the end.

But Judith loved the birch tree, and would not have it cut down. When the subject had been broached, over dinner one night, she did not cry or wail or beseech—she simply put her fork down by her plate and announced that she would not eat ever again if the tree was cut. They had not really believed her, but then Judith took nothing but milk and water for almost a week. She had grown pale and haggard and the bones in her face began to stand out sharply. Once again, Dr. Rose was called.

"Leave her be," he said, after a quick examination of the patient. "She'll eat when she gets hungry enough."

But Judith did not. Her hunger-strike continued. Dr. Rose was called again and this time when he came down he sighed.

"It's a good shade tree," he said finally. "You might as well keep it—it can't be _too_ bad for the place."

This was Dr. Rose's way of saying that Judith had won. The tree stayed where it was, even though a significant portion of the dining room floor now sloped sharply upwards a few inches.

Judith was extremely stubborn when she wanted to be. This, Pat thought, clasping her hands around her knees, was the one thing she would _take_ from her daughter. It did not do to be so stubborn about things. And though she hated to admit it—she loved both of her girls equally and fiercely—Judith was the reason why she couldn't be perfectly happy.

It wasn't only that her manner of dress had become a bit more on the daring side. While Betsey still clung to her kilts and saddle-shoes, Judith wore culottes and shorter skirts, and dresses that were—well, that were almost _backless_. She had traded her oxfords for heels. And then there was the makeup.

"Darling," Pat said in faint alarm, watching her daughter apply a thick ring of kohl around her eyes. "You are so pretty, just the way you are. Do you really think that you _need_ to make up your face so heavily?"

Judith looked at her scornfully before adding a layer of red lip-stick.

Hilary had put his foot down. No daughter of his was going to go out in that get-up, he vowed. So Judith would not go out. He sent her to her room and bade her stay there.

When Pat came up to check on her, she found the window open and Judith gone. The birch tree, about which there had been so much contention, had served another purpose.

Judith was 'grounded.' But one could not ground one's daughter indefinitely. Little by little, and without meaning to, Pat and Hilary relented. And resigned themselves to the fact that Judith would almost always get her way.

But now—Pat sighed, the deepening twilight matching her gloomy mood. She could stand the make-up and the dresses and the heels and—and almost anything else. But what she could _not_ stand was Everett Miles. He was a crass, boorish boy. There were rumors that he smoked—and drank—and frequented clubs in the 'bad' part of town. Why—_why_—should Judy choose to go around with such a boy?

Hilary again had put his foot down and he had meant it this time. Judy should never see Everett Miles again. Judith only shrugged—and then came home with a small diamond winking on her hand. They did not notice it for a while, until Hilary again forbade her from seeing him. Then Judy smiled.

"It'll be awfully hard for us not to see each other when we're husband and wife," she said, and then held up her hand so they all might see.

That had been last night. What a terrible row had ensued! Hilary had shouted—and Hilary never shouted. Betsey had been in tears, too upset to eat a bite of her supper. And Pat—Pat had lain awake all night thinking and thinking, trying to come up with an answer to the question that went over and over in her mind: What shall we do with Judith?

"What _shall_ we do with Judith?" she asked Hilary, when she met him at the gate that night. A little frown line had appeared between her lovely brows and Hilary longed to sooth it away with a kiss. But the truth was, it would not go away until they found a satisfactory answer to the question: What should they do with Judith?

There did not seem to be much to do. They thought about it over dinner, and after, while they were sitting by the fire. Pat's heart twisted in her chest. She knew her daughter was a good girl—she thought about how fiercely loyal Judy was, how tender to her sister. How she could lose herself for hours in a book. But the truth remained that she almost didn't recognize Judith now—and, at times, when she caught her daughter unawares, something _almost_ reminded her of Doreen Garrison.

"I don't want Judy to end up like Jingle's mother!" said Pat to herself. In her heart she knew what she must do. She climbed the stairs to Hilary's study and outlined her plan.

By the end of it, her eyes were brimming with tears. Hilary caught Pat in his arms and held her close. "I know you don't want to do it—but I think it is for the best."

"It will be so hard, not having her near-by." Pat wiped the tears from her lashes as they fell. "And it will be hard on Betsey, as well. Oh, Jingle—I remember how I used to hate being 'sent to Coventry'—and that was in my own home!"

"Nonetheless, Pat," Jingle reassured her, "I think we have run out of options."

Pat knew that he was right, even though her heart was heavy. She went down to her little writing desk and penned a short letter to Mrs. Frank Russell, Bay Shore, PEI. Asking if Judy might come to stay with them—just for a little while.


	2. Judy Writes

Dear Betsey (wrote Judith)

I have been away from you for only a day—and yet, I _feel_ every one of those minutes between us. Each one of them lays heavily against my heart. I didn't enjoy our plane ride a bit—I only kept thinking that every second was taking me farther away from you. I'm _not_ exaggerating and I'm not giving myself over to hyperbole, either. If mother and father knew, really knew, how hard it was for twins to be separated, they never would have come up with such a cockamamie scheme.

The drive to the airport was rather cold, and _that_ hurt me, as well. There has never been any coldness before between me and father. Mother hugged me so nicely and cried a little when she said goodbye to me at home; but Dad only asked if I had packed a sweater, for the Island could be cold o'nights, even in the summer. We didn't talk again until he had dropped me off at the gate. _Then_ he told me very sternly that I must behave myself, and try to make a good impression on the 'Silver Bushites.' A good impression! What hope have I of making one of those if everyone already knows that I have been sent away in disgrace?

I would have liked to enjoy the plane ride more. I can barely remember that time we flew to Vancouver to see Aunt Rae and Uncle Brook and the boys, except that the sky all around us was gray, gray, gray. Today it was a lovely view, and clear, so that I could see all the way down to the little towns below. It gave me such an odd feeling to think that inside every one of those hundreds of houses was a family, with its own joys and triumphs—and disgraces—just like our own. I felt immediately kin to every other one of those girls who are as _misunderstood_ as me. For certainly they must be out there. Oh, Betsey, I didn't think it _possible_ for mother and Dad to be as misunderstanding as they are!

I slept a little, but woke up in time for the descent. Oh, that _was_ a little nervewracking. I have never had any problems flying before but today there was a little wind, and as we bumped and shivered along I was reminded of Great-aunt Barbara, and how she always said that if God had intended us to fly, He would have given us wings. I clutched and clutched at my armrest in terror—until I happened to look out my window again and see the Island, the whole of it, floating in the gulf like an emerald on blue velvet. I remembered how mother used to tell us that the Indians called Prince Edward Island 'Abegweit'—cradle on the waves—and that is just how it looks from up high.

Uncle Sid met me at the air-port in Charlottetown and I almost didn't recognize him with his thick black beard. Do you know he looks almost exactly like the pictures of old Great-uncle Tom? Uncle Sid didn't recognize me either, at first—he was still craning his neck to see behind me—but when I started over he did at once, and when I reached him he said, "Pat—Pat in the flesh—except for those eyes."

Auntie May—_dear_ Auntie May, do you read my sarcasm?—was waiting with him and I would have recognized her at once. She has still that lean, hungry look about her. I know instinctually that she is one of those women who is always on a diet whether she needs it or not, because she has no imagination to dream up another way to spend her time. Her flashy dress seemed out of place in everyday, and her hair is still blond, very blond—but not without some help, I imagine. When I looked at her face I understood what mother means when she tells me to lay off the rouge and kohl—May looked hard, and old—years older than mother though they are really about the same age.

We drove along and Uncle Sid talked to me, to try and get me reacquainted with the family. I have tried to remember everything he said (plus May's catty asides) and set it down as faithfully as I can for you.

"Winnie and Frank and their brood are living at the Bay Shore still," Uncle Sid said. "That's where you'll be staying. Of course it's quiet there during the year, with Young Win and Rachel away at Redmond—and Frank and Tommy away at Queens. (Here May rolls her eyes for time the first, as though the very thought of higher education is enough to sicken her). But they're all home for the summer now," Uncle Sid went on.

"More's the pity," said May, under her breath.

Uncle Sid either didn't hear her or pretended not to. "Little Mary is home from Montreal—she's come to plan her wedding, you know. It should go off in August. I'm to be best man." He flushed crimson with pride under his black beard. (Aunt May interjected, "Best man—hah!" and turned her face to the window haughtily).

"Mary is marrying a foreigner," Uncle Sid continued. "They met studying botany at McGill. We call him Kenny, though his real name is Kenichi Sato. Isn't that some name? He's Japanese."

"Though why Mary would want to marry one of _them_ is beyond me," May said carelessly. "You remember how awful they acted during the war."

Uncle Sid sighed. "The war's been over for sixteen years, May."

This put a damper on conversation for a while. We drove on, and I tried to recall the last visit we'd made to the Island. It's more than ten years ago, now; I think the last time was for Grandmother Gardiner's funeral. I recognized the red roads and I got a pleasant remebery sort of feeling when we went by certain old farmhouses. But all in all, the place is much changed from the picture I hold in my head.

Uncle Sid seemed to know what I was thinking for he turned to look over his shoulder at me.

"Not much further to Bay Shore," he said. "That's where Winnie and her brood lives, if you recall. Oh, and Frank," he added, by way of afterthought. I rather got the impression from that that Aunt Winnie runs the household.

"You'll be staying there, mostly," Uncle Sid went on, turning back to the road. "But I hope you shall visit us at Swallowfield from time to time."

Aunt May made a snorting sound through her nose at that.

"Swallowfield?" I asked, a little confusedly. The last time we were here, I distinctly recall Uncle Sid and Aunt May living at the old Silver Bush. Of course it was never _called_ Silver Bush after it burnt down—Mother always said Aunt May wasn't romantic enough to live at a house that had a name.

"Yes, Swallowfield," Uncle Sid said. "We've moved there since Tom died. May likes to be a little closer to her family. We're renting Silver Bush this summer—to Yankee tenants. I do hope they'll be good to the place. They seemed nice enough, but you never can tell, with Yankees."

His brow was wrinkled in concern. Aunt May only said, "Um," in a tone that indicated that she could really care less about the fate of what had been her home for many years.

By this time we had reached Bay Shore and pulled up in front of Aunt Winnie's—and Uncle Frank's—house. A short, stoutish woman with ash-colored curls was waiting on the porch, and I realized with some surprise that it was Aunt Winnie herself. She is only five years older than Mother, you know—but it seems more, when you look at her. I supposed it must be all those children—and just as I thought it the door opened and a horde of young people poured out and down the steps.

I recognized Little Mary at once—Little Mary! She must be close to father's height, Bets! I never met anyone with a more incongruous nickname—and when I looked at her I could see what Aunt Winnie must have looked like in her youth. Mary has long, yellow blond curls that she wears loose and free and tumbling down about her shoulders (I haven't yet seen anyone on the island but Aunt May who wears _bouffant_). Mary is tall and willowy and 'Selby' to the core—though there is a whiff of mother about her wrists and ankles. She smiled brilliantly when she saw me and seemed so happy that for a moment I forgot the reason for my visit.

Young Winnie and Rachel, the twins, couldn't possibly look more _un_twinly if they tried. Win's nose is long and aquiline while Rachel's is a snub. Rachel is pepper with freckles while Winnie's skin is smooth and white. They both have riots of curls—though Winnie's are dark and Rachel's are a very pale blonde. But for all their differences, they were dressed exactly alike, in pleated skirts and back-to-front cardigans. (I immediately felt like my own skirt was too short). But imagine, Bets! _We _gave up on all that twinly rigmarole years ago!

"It's because we _don't _look alike," explained Win to me later. "Nobody knows that we're twins from looking at us—"

"And we do so like being twins," Rachel explained earnestly,

"So we _have_ to dress alike," they finished together.

For all that they really are very different in personality—quite like you and I, Bets darling. Win is getting her diploma in literature and is quoting Shakespeare always, while Rachel is a natural scientist. She went out after supper to collect specimens by the lake and came back muddy to the knees.

Frankie and Tommy, the boys, look rather like Uncle Frank, with wholesome pink faces that always look fresh-scrubbed, and blue-grey eyes, and not a hint of anything romantic about them. Capital R or little r—not romantic a bit. Over supper, Uncle Frank (who is almost completely bald and fatter than ever—but just as nice as he always was) told us that Tommy has been 'courting' (Uncle Frank's word) Jenna Madison for over a year, and gave her an electric iron for her last birthday. We all howled except for Tommy, and Frankie.

"Why shouldn't I have given her an iron?" Tom asked blankly. "She said she wanted one, and so I got it. It came from the Eaton's catalog, too."

"And now her shirts will always be nicely pressed," said Frankie in defence of his brother, and we all laughed harder.

It has been a lovely day, all in all. No one has made me feel peculiar because I've been 'sent away' from home. In fact, Little Mary and I sat up quite late talking and she confessed she was ever so glad to have me here. She's always felt so badly that we don't get to see each other more. We listened to the new Roy Orbison on Mary's record player and danced and I thought that perhaps I shouldn't be having so much _fun_ under the circumstances! I kept seeing mother's face and her serious brows as she told me that I should either give up Everett or go.

I feel certain that mother wouldn't quite like the idea of me dancing and singing and having fun, when I told her quite plainly that not even a summer could ever make me forget dear Ev. Of course I'm not wearing my ring—Mother made me promise not to—but I have put it on a chain around my neck so it will be near to me always.

Besides you, Betsey, I miss Everett the most of all. Oh, it is too cruel that we should be separated all summer long! We had so many plans and I hate that they should never happen now. And I know it sounds terribly disloyal but I can't help thinking that Everett—might—find some other girl, that I am gone. Oh, but I'm being foolish! Of course he loves me—just as much as I love him.

It's well past midnight—I heard the clock strike. Such an old-fashioned grandfatherly clock—but then everything at the Bay Shore is a trifle old-fashioned. I don't entirely mind, except that my flash-light keeps dying and Little Mary keeps turning about in her sleep. I think the light is keeping her up—and so I must go—we're getting up awfully early tomorrow to go on a 'driving tour' of the town. Goodnight, twin o'mine—I miss you awfully.

Love from JUDY

PS: I'm enclosing a letter for you to give to Everett, if you don't mind. I would tell you to give him a kiss from me, but the very thought's sent me into peals of laughter! I must stop laughing or I'll wake Mary. The idea of you—dear, innocent, Bets—kissing _boys_! (Although you must start sometime, darling, or people will think you're terribly anti-social.)

PPS: Since we're speaking of Ev—the thought just crossed my mind—well, I was wondering if you would mind terribly keeping an eye on him for me? It isn't that I don't trust him, it's…well. I'd just feel better that way. Of course you shouldn't let on that you are spying—I don't want him to think me paranoid.

PPPS: Oh, Betsey, I do wish you were here!


	3. Along the Shore

Judith woke up far earlier than she would have if she had been at home. At home she had her own room, and kept her thick blue curtains shut tight to ward out any wayward glare from the sun. She kept her radio on when she slept, its low monotonous hum blocking out any sound of the happy morning world. She tended to sleep curled up on her Chinese satin sheets until noon or so, in the summer—with a black silk eye-mask that Aunt Rae had given her set down over her face to catch whatever light the curtains missed.

So she was surprised to be jolted awake at the very crack of dawn. There was a…_sound_…coming from somewhere. And these rough linen sheets under her cheek were not her own. Drat it all, where was all that _light_ coming from? Judith buried her face in her pillow and groaned.

She had been having the most delicious dream. In it, Dad and mother had come to the Bay Shore to take her away. Mother had been crying tears of remorse, and even Dad looked sorry.

"It was too mean of us to keep you apart from Everett, I'll admit," he had said, scuffing his foot in that sheepish way he had. "He's not so bad after all—we see that now. Will you ever forgive us—Judy-bug?"

And Judith had graciously accepted his apology—as graciously as one could, when one was wearing one's pink chenille bathrobe and fuzzy slippers—and had deigned to come back home with them as long as they didn't let anything like this happen again. It had seemed so _real_! She groaned again—why ever did she have to wake up, after a dream like that? It was too cruel.

The door to the adjoining bathroom opened up and Little Mary stepped out in a haze of steam, pink-cheeked and wholesome looking. Oh, Bay Shore was a 'modern' house—except that the taps only ran two temperatures—deadly cold or blistering hot. By the looks of Mary's flushed skin, she had been using the latter.

"Good morning," she chirruped, and Judith felt a little nauseous at the good-natured sweetness in her voice. She had liked Mary very much the night before, but now she wanted to slap her. Couldn't she see that Judith wanted to sleep—and sleep—and sleep? She gave a muffled _harrumph_ and pulled the blankets over her head.

But not for long. Mary pulled them back, laughing. She stepped forward and flung the muslin curtains open even more and threw up the sash, drinking in the cool morning air.

"Isn't it delicious?" she sighed. "When I was very small, Judy, your mother told me that every day was a gift from God. If I'd been naughty I used to think that God would punish me by _not letting_ the morning come. I'd lie awake, terrified, praying that He would. And yet the morning always came, no matter how bad I'd been. I used to think that it showed how good at praying I was—but now I know that it's because God is good and merciful."

_Gag_, thought Judith, trying to wrap her mind around the very idea of Little Mary—all sweetness and light—ever being bad! She could not imagine it, and settled for pulling the covers back over her face.

Mary pulled them away again. "Not today," she sang. "Why, Ken's coming to take us on our driving tour. He'll be here any second and you're not even ready!"

"I thought—that maybe—it would be a little later in the day," said Judith helplessly.

Mary trilled a laugh. "Why, this is the best time of day," she said seriously—seriously! "It would be next thing to a sin to waste it. Come on, now, up with you!"

Pulled unceremoniously from her nest of blankets, Judith had no choice but to trudge off toward the bathroom. Her mood was not helped by the water from the taps—which was now cold.

Shivering, she still pulled on her nicest outfit—a little yellow and white striped sunsuit—just shorts and a halter top. She looked over her sturdy arms and long legs and was pleased to note that she had the beginnings of a very nice tan. Judy affixed her hair in a pony-tail and set a pair of white sunglasses on her nose. A dab of powder, to cover those misbehaving little freckles—and a gloss of red, red lipstick. There. She felt better already. It was amazing what a nice outfit and a little makeup could do! She gathered her white wicker tote and stepped into her thongs, and made her way downstairs, feeling almost cheerful.

Mary and the twins were each tucking into a stack of flapjacks, but Judith bypassed them, heading straight for the coffeepot. She poured a mugful, and sat down aloofly at the table, feeling light-years more sophisticated than the other girls. _They _were drinking milk out of tall green glasses.

She couldn't resist a little shiver when the hot, bitter liquid made its way down her throat. Ugh! But she forced herself to swallow. Win and Rachel were looking at her strangely.

"If you don't like coffee, why drink it?" Win wondered, as though it were the simplest thing ever to be contemplated.

"It's not that," Judy said hastily—and a little haughtily. "It's just that I always drink espresso at home." This was not exactly true—she and Everett had been to a coffee bar where Judith had had espresso exactly once. But it was not really a lie, either. She had always planned to start drinking it instead of coffee.

Win only shrugged, and went back to her plate.

But Little Mary was looking at Judith in concern. "You must eat _something_," she said, in consternation. "Mother says that breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Judith shrugged. She never ate breakfast if she could help it, though her own mother sometimes put her foot down and made her. Skipping breakfast, Judith had read, was the best way for a girl to keep her weight down. Mary looked like she would have said more but there was a gay _toot-toot_ from the driveway that stopped her.

"Ken's here!" she cried, a blush coming to her cheeks. Why, Mary must be twenty-seven years old—why should she look so—so—_girlish_ simply because her boyfriend had come to collect her? Judith knew instinctually that Mary was just the sort of girl who _still_ referred to her boyfriend as her 'beau.'

"We're coming along!" Mary cried out the window and turned back to Judith. Her eyes raked over her sunsuit and her smile faltered.

"Oh—but you aren't ready, Judy!"

"I am so," said Judith, pulling herself to her full height.

Mary eyed her little sunsuit with dismay, and Judy noted Mary's modest, pink-cotton sundress. Why, the sleeves came nearly to her elbows!

"It's not that you don't look sweet," Mary explained, blushing. "It's only that—well—you might be…"

"Cold," Rachel supplied.

"Yes!" Mary nodded, and smiled. "You _must_ take a sweater along—here." She handed Judith a white cable-knit that hung on the back of the kitchen door.

Judith handed it back. "I'm fine the way I am," she protested, but Mary and the twins would not hear of it.

"You must…"

"What would Mother say if you…"

"Oh, put it on!"

There was another _toot_ from the driveway. Mary looked so dismayed, her eyes big and wide and blue. Judith clicked her tongue against her teeth in annoyance and shrugged into the voluminous sweater.

"Let's go, if we're going," she said, quite grimly, and followed Mary out-of-doors.

xxxxxxxxxx

She was rather glad for the sweater as they roared along the shore road. Ken had a convertible, and the top was down, and it _was_ a little cool, so close to the water. Judith made up for the sweater's unfashionableness by winding a bright orange scarf around her head, Grace Kelly-style, and daubing on another coat of lipstick. Mary was too enraptured to notice.

"Smell the wind!" she sighed, flinging her head back so that her gold curls fell in cascades over her shoulders. Judith's hand flew to her own dark pony-tail, wondering why _she_ should have to be the lone brunette in a household of fair-headed girls. It just wasn't fair! Mary didn't even seem to notice how lovely her hair was—she didn't style it in any way, and always let it hang loose about her face. But some men liked the natural look—perhaps Kenichi Sato was one of those men?

Judy could not help staring, from behind her sunglasses, at Ken. He was, she thought, quite possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen. His skin was pale and smooth as new milk, and his hair was so black that in some lights it looked blue. He had fine, well-cut features and his slanting eyes reminded her of a cat's. And—he was _nice_. As nice as Mary, almost.

Judy had never before thought that a man could be nice _and_ dashingly good-looking.

It was true that Everett was handsome—maybe even handsomer than Mary's Ken. His dark hair was slick and curled over the edges of his collar in a daring way, and his eyes could snap dark fire when he was in one of his 'moods.' He was fun—and exciting—and smart, far smarter than anyone gave him credit for. But—was he _nice_?

Oh, who wanted 'nice,' anyway! Nice was _boring, _Judy thought.

They pulled over at an overlook and got out—Judy seemed quite contented with 'nice' as Ken helped her from the car—and from there made their way down a little sandy slope to the beach below. It had stormed during the night, and the waves pounded the shore. It _was_ cool, here, with nothing to block the wind, and Judy became glad of her sweater, for all that it was outmoded.

Ken led the way to a little sandy cove, just big enough for them all to sit and look out at the waves. He held Mary's hand in his, and both of them looked so perfectly contented that Judy felt rather the third wheel. To cover her sense of awkwardness, she asked,

"How—I mean I was wondering—how you two met?"

Mary flashed a meaningful glance at Ken, whose dark eyes shone with laughter. Judith's sense of sticking out increased. She shied a little away, but Mary reached out kindly to draw her back.

"No—no," she said. "Don't be upset. It's only that it's a funny story. You see, Ken and I met when we were out in British Columbia for a botany assignment, last fall."

_Funny_? Judith thought, stifling a yawn. _More like _boring. She sat back, wishing she were anywhere else but there, at that particular place, at that particular time. If she'd wanted a science lecture she would have paid more attention in Mr. Falk's class last school year.

"There are heaps of things that are out there—but haven't been discovered yet," Mary continued, not noticing her cousin's sudden lethargy. "Isn't that a lovely thought? That there are things still to be found—just waiting for us to discover them. Anyway," she said, smiling, "I noticed Ken right away. But he didn't seem to pay me any attention—he was so focused on his work. I tried to talk to him, but I gave up after a while, supposing it was hopeless." Her eyes found his again and smiled.

"But on the third day, the cry went up that Ken had discovered something—a new flower," Mary explained, and Judith felt herself becoming interested, despite her put-on nonchalance. A new flower? What an intriguing thought!

"We couldn't find it in any of the books, and finally even the professor admitted it must be a new species. And so Ken had the honor of naming it, because he'd discovered it. And when I found out what he was calling it—I _knew_."

"What did he call it?" asked Judith, curiously.

"_Maria minime_," Ken said, softly, tracing his bride-to-be's chin with his fingertips. It was the first time he'd really spoken and his voice was husky and gentle.

Judith's mind worked—she hadn't been any better in Latin that she had been in science—but she finally grasped the meaning. "Little Mary—you called it Little Mary!"

"Yes," Little Mary nodded. "A tiny, delicate blossom with petals like sunbursts—pale blue in color. I'm going to carry a cluster of them in my bride's bouquet."

Judy felt her heart contract in a strange way. It was a lovely story. She couldn't help thinking that the nicest thing Everett had ever done for her was to let her ride on the back of his motor-bike. Her heart sank suddenly—she couldn't be jealous of Mary! Why, Mary was positively provincial!—but…she was, a bit.

"I'm cold," she said suddenly. "I'd rather be back in the car, I think."

Mary jumped up, apologetic. Of course Judy must be cold—they would go immediately. A drive through town would be just the thing. Why, there was a record-store, there, and a boutique, and a roller rink, and oh! Judy was sure to love it.

Judith felt her spirits raise as they drove on. She had some of the spending money Dad had given her in her pocket and she knew that buying herself something nice would go far toward lifting her spirits. Maybe she could even find something nice for Betsey, too—anything to get her out of those terrible sack dresses she still insisted on wearing!

Suddenly, as they slowed to go round a bend, Judith caught a glimpse of a tall, tanned boy with a cap of fair curls. He was walking by himself, and there was a book in his hand. Their eyes met—and Judy felt her heart quicken. Why should a total stranger look at her in such a way—as though he _knew_ her—had known her for ages? Oh, why _didn't_ they know each other already? How _fun _it would be to get to know him! And then, crushingly, Judith thought that perhaps she _wouldn't_ ever get the chance to know him and the very thought was the greatest tragedy she had ever known.

And there was _something_ in his gaze. She felt suddenly that her shorts were too short—and her lipstick was too bright. She pulled the sweater closer around her body, though her skin was warm—warmer than she had been before—and her breath caught in her throat.

"Mary—who is that—do you know that boy?"

But the bend was behind them, and the boy was almost out of sight. Judy sighed and craned her neck to see behind, until they stopped suddenly at a little stoplight—the first one of its kind that Judy had seen. Mary turned around and smiled proudly.

"How do you like our town?" she asked grandly.

Judith looked around. Why—this _couldn't_ be the town! It was only one road. The roller rink was empty, no more than a little patch of pavement—the mannequin in the window of the boutique boasted a dusty poodle skirt—and the record store was no where to be seen. Her fingers, curled around her little canvas wallet, let go. She felt limp with disappointment.

This—_this_—was where she must spend six more weeks—! Judy felt her heart sink to the very bottom of her shoes, and wondered if she would ever be able to survive six weeks more. Six weeks more—of this!


	4. One's Own Two Feet

Betsey Gordon set down her book with a troubled sigh. She didn't know what was wrong with her—usually _Jane Eyre's_ exploits entertained her for hours on end—it was her favorite book. But today it didn't seem to have the same tang to it. In fact, Betsey found herself wondering why she had ever read it before! Jane was so _wishy_-washy—why did she let Mr. Rochester stomp around in those black moods?—if he had tried that with her, Betsey, he would have found his ears tingling, and that's for sure!

She tossed the book aside in annoyance—at herself. It wasn't Miss Bronte's fault that she was in a nasty mood. Betsey knew that it probably had more to do with the fact that it was a whole week since Judith had gone—a whole week without Judith! In all of her mind's eye, she could not remember even a _day_ without darling Judy by her side.

The house was too quiet, without Judy's radio always blaring—without her friends calling always on the 'phone—and things seemed dull and flat without her whirling in and out, always on her way to somewhere else. Betsey even thought, in the long silences of the evenings, while mother sewed and dad drafted in his study, that she rather missed Judith's arguing with everyone, too.

And she had to admit that it was more—comfortable—with Judy around. Not only because Betsey missed her; not only because her twin was her best friend. But because Judy was always doing _something_, and that kept mother and dad from noticing Betsey too much. But now—Mother was always looking at Betsey with a concerned look in her warm brown eyes and Dad was always saying, in some surprise:

"Home again, tonight, Bets? Haven't got a date?"

The question always made Betsey flush. She had never had a date—not even once. Judy was always trying to arrange 'doubles' but at first Betsey was too shy to go along, so she said no. Now it seemed that everyone had paired off, and Betsey had reconsidered her position. She would like to know what it was like to go out with a boy—to hold his hand—perhaps even to kiss him. But she had said 'no' so many times that she did not know how to now say 'yes.'

It wouldn't be so bad if only _Mother_ stopped pestering her, too! Every afternoon, when Betsey came in with her book, Mother met her anxiously at the door.

"Why don't you go to the movies?" she suggested. "You could call Patty, or Meg. I'm sure they're missing you."

Betsey only shook her head lightly. Patty and Meg—and Joanie and Linda and Bobbie—they were all friends of _Judith's_. Betsey only tagged along with them—they weren't her friends, not really.

Oh, what she would have given for a friend—just one girl-friend—to laugh and talk with!

She was lonely. She thought peevishly that mother might have _thought_ about how Betsey would feel before she sent Judy away for the whole summer! And she was angry with herself. Why, mother and dad had a party to go to almost every night—how was it that Betsey's _parents_ should have a better social life than she did?

"I hate leaving you alone," Mother said regretfully, as she and dad were leaving to go to a party at the Morrisons' down the street. Betsey would have come along except that Joanie Morrison made her nervous—she was such a pretty girl, always in the middle of a crowd. Rather like Judy. Betsey smoothed her skirt.

"I'll be all right," she said, trying to keep her tone bright and cheerful. "I—I have a book I wanted to finish, anyway. You know I'm not one for parties—and—and things."

So Mother and Dad went, and all night Betsey sat in her darkened bedroom, listening to the sounds of laughter floating in on the night air. She felt lonelier and lonelier, and looked longingly at the telephone on her night-side table. It was a powder blue princess phone—she and Judy each had gotten one for their last birthday. Only Judy was always using hers—while Betsey hardly ever did. She seized it, now and dialed long distance.

She waited while the operator connected her to the Bay Shore. And then the phone rang once—twice—three times. A voice answered, out-of-breath but full of laughter.

"May I speak to Judith, please?" Betsey asked, the terrible hunger for her twin like a lit flame in her heart. If she could only hear Judy's breathless, cheerful voice, it would help a little.

"Oh, dear," said the woman on the other end of the line—was it Aunt Winnie? Betsey didn't know. She only felt her heart plummet at her words. "Judy's gone out with her cousins tonight, I'm afraid."

Betsey blinked hard to keep the tears from falling. "Do you know when she will be back?" she asked, voice wobbling dangerously.

"I'm afraid I don't," said Aunt Winnie gently. "Could I take a message for you, and pass it along to her?"

Betsey listened to the static and crackle coming across the line. It seemed too unfair that Judy should be able to go away to a whole new place and make friends, and have things to do—fun times, and the like—while she, Betsey, didn't have _one_ friend in a place she had lived her whole life.

"Dear?" asked Aunt Winnie. "_Would_ you like to leave a message?"

"No," said Betsey, and hung up quickly, so that her aunt would not hear the tears in her voice.

xxxxxxxxxx

It was a new morning, and Betsey woke up with a feeling of resolve in her heart. She brushed her long dark hair and was about to tie it back with her usual Alice-band when she thought of the colorful barrettes in Judy's dresser. Her hand hovered for a moment, and put the Alice-band back. _Why not? _She thought as she made her way into her sister's room. Judy was always getting after Betsey to do something different with her hair—she surely wouldn't mind.

Betsey clumsily clipped back two sides of her hair with bright plastic barrettes shaped like cherries. She looked at herself in the mirror and for a moment thought she looked foolish. She made a move to take the clips out but stopped herself. No—it was only that she was wearing her old, school-girlish pink gingham dress. Anyone would look silly in that! Her heart pounded with an idea and slowly she eased open the top drawer of Judy's bureau, peeping inside.

Judy had taken all of her 'best' outfits with her to the island but there were a few things she had left behind. There was a white pair of culottes that Judith had always hated because they were too 'long'—even still, they were shorter than anything Betsey owned. She put them on, and was surprised by how long and tan her legs suddenly looked. Buoyed up with courage, she rummaged further and found a red t-shirt, which she pulled over her head. It came with a little belt that was also printed with gay, red and white cherries. Betsey wound it around her waist and stepped back to regard herself.

Why—she had a _shape_! Quite a nice shape, too, if she wasn't mistaken—Betsey had thumbed through enough of Judith's magazines to know that this kind of gently curving figure was much sought after. She looked at her reflection and marveled again how much she and Judy looked alike. Of course they _were_ identical twins, but you know...

Betsey reached forward for a little make-up bag on the dresser top and stopped. Did she dare? She bit her lip. Oh—well, maybe just a _little_ of this clear gloss on her lips. She dabbed it on, experimentally.

"Betsey!" called Mother up the stairs. "Breakfast is ready!"

Betsey suddenly felt nervous—and ridiculous. She couldn't let mother see her like this! What on earth would she think—and Dad? She stepped out of the shorts and shirt and tossed them back into their drawer, pulled the cherry barrettes from her hair and threw them across the room, and used one of Judy's scarves to scrub her lips. The pink gingham went back over her head and she shook her hair loose. Oh, that exciting girl in the mirror was gone—and old, drab Betsey was back again!

"I'm coming," she called back, and trudged downstairs to the kitchen.

Mother served her a plateful of eggs and bacon and sat down eagerly to watch Betsey eat.

"What are your plans today, darling?" she asked eagerly.

Betsey's plans _had_ been to sit out under the willow tree with _Wuthering Heights_ but her mother looked so hopeful that she couldn't tell her that.

"I—I think I'll go and see what Patty Kelly is up to," she said, surprising herself. Patty Kelly was Judy's friend—but Betsey had always liked her. She read things—things besides _Seventeen_ magazine—and she had a sturdy, sensible look to her that Betsey had always liked.

"Oh!" Mother cried, in delight. "Well, isn't that marvelous? Won't you have fun!" Betsey tried to smile and pushed her plate away but her heart was thudding painfully in her chest. Mother was so happy, that now Betsey must really do it—go and knock on Patty Kelly's door and _talk_ to her, without Judith beside her to make things easier.

Her stomach was in knots as she made her way down the street. The Kellys had a pool in their backyard—one of the only families on the street to have one—and Betsey could already hear the sounds of laughter and splashing coming from their backyard. She wished miserably that she had worn her bathing suit under her clothes but she hadn't; she had been afraid it would look rather presumptuous. But wouldn't it look sillier still _not_ to have brought it? She raised her hand and knocked at the front door miserably.

There was no answer. Betsey groaned inwardly. She had two options—she could either go home in defeat or walk around the yard to the back. She could hear Patty's voice from back there, and a half-dozen other voices, to boot. She cringed, and decided to go home—but then remembered the happy look in her mother's eyes. Betsey squared her shoulders and thought that if she was going to do it, it was best to get it over, quick.

"Oh!" cried Patty Kelly, as she saw Betsey come through the gate. "It's you! You're here! Oh, I'm so _glad_ to see you?"

A chorus of other voices averred the same sentiment, and Patty jumped up to pull Betsey over to the little glass-topped table, where lemonade was being served in painted glasses. Betsey couldn't believe her luck. Why, it was just as mother said—people _did _like her, and they all seemed to want her here! She glowed with pleasure.

"Back from that musty old island already?" Kathy Powell asked, getting out of the pool and coming to give Betsey a hug. "We all _knew_ your parents would relent, Judy. They couldn't keep you away _all_ summer—that's what we all thought."

At once Betsey's happiness faded and her arm trembled so much that a little wave of lemonade slopped over the edge of the glass onto her dress. They thought—they hadn't thought—oh, they thought she was—!

"I'm not Judy," she said in a low voice, two spots of color appearing on her cheeks. "I'm—I'm Betsey."

"Oh," said Kathy. Her arm dropped limply to her side.

"Oh," said the other girls.

"Oh—Betsey," said Patty Kelly in surprise. "Well, of course we're happy to see you, too—_aren't_ we, girls?" There was a warning note in her tone. "We'd love for you to stay and swim with us. Why, it's the next best thing to having Judy here, after all!"

"Yes," said the other girls faintly. "The next best thing."

"You must go put your suit on and come swim," said Patty, regaining her confidence.

"I—I haven't brought one," Betsey said miserably.

"That's all right—you can borrow one of mine. It's hanging on the back of the bathroom door."

Betsey went inside, trying not to notice the peculiar silence that had fallen over the group. Once in the bathroom she splashed her face with cold water and surveyed the tiny yellow two piece Patty had provided for her. Could she wear such a thing? She put it on, but still felt naked, so she grabbed a towel from the back of the door and wound it around her body, which seemed so pale next to all the other girls.'

"I can do this," she whispered to herself. "Judy could—and so I can, too."

She affixed a cheerful smile to her face as she made her way back to the giggling group. It was like Mother said, if you couldn't be happy you should be as happy as you could.

"Hey," said Julie Hodgkins, as Betsey loosened her towel a bit. "That's a really cute…" Betsey held her breath. "Bathing suit," Julie finished.

Betsey slumped. "It's Patty's," she whispered, feeling as out of place as she ever had.

Still, she stuck it out, all afternoon, and only when her face flamed red with sunburn did she get up to go. She noticed, as she left, that though the girls wished her farewell with warmth and enthusiasm not one of them said she hoped to see Betsey again at one of their gatherings.

Betsey went upstairs and slathered her red and peeling face with Noxzema. She changed into her own comfortable clothes, put Patty's bathing suit into the hamper to wash, and went downstairs to find her mother.

"Can you please—please Mother—oh, won't you send for Judy—and bring her home?"

Pat put down the book she had been reading and regarded her daughter. Older than Judy by six minutes—but sometimes it felt as though Betsey were younger—by six years. With her hair tied back and her face dabbed with cold cream, she looked no bigger than the little, shy, scared girl she had been at four—six—twelve—that she _was_, even now.

"Do you really miss her so much, darling?"

"Oh," Betsey cried, throwing herself at her mother's feet. "So terribly—so terribly, mother! I don't know what I'll do with her gone all summer. Judy's always been my eyes—my ears—my voice—and I can _lean_ on her, when I need to. It's horrible with her gone—I feel as though I'll stumble and fall, because she isn't there to help me up. Oh mother, what shall I do if you don't let her come home?"

Pat looked into her daughter's face and thought of her other daughter, who was far away. It was true that Pat herself had been having misgivings about Judy's punishment—the entire summer was a long time—but now, looking at Betsey, she resigned herself to it. It must be done.

"You have relied on Judy your whole life—and well you should. She is your sister, after all—and sisters should depend on each other. But there are limits, Bets. What will happen when Judy grows up—and goes away—what will you do then? It is never too good to cling to one person too much."

"Does this mean," asked Betsey piteously, "That you won't let Judy come home?"

Pat leaned down and kissed her girl's reddened cheek. She wondered why it was that the world, which was so full of fun and excitement for Judith, should be so terrible and frightening for Betsey. She, Pat, had always found the world a very lovely place—and she was determined that Betsey should, too—in her own time.

"It means," she said, gently but firmly, "That it is about time for you to learn to stand on your own two feet. _Without_ Judith. Just as Betsey."

Just as Betsey! Betsey buried her face in her hands. Just as Betsey—how _lonely_ that sounded—and how impossible!


	5. Silver Bush

"I thought we might take a drive over to Silver Bush today," said Little Mary, at the breakfast table. "It's such a nice day for 'Silver Bushing'—though that place is magic, on any sort of day. But I do think that on this type of day—wet and green and warm—the place looks _especially_ delightful. What do you say, Judy?"

Judy, who had been munching on a piece of toast, merely 'ummed' in response. Her mind was far away. Part of it was back home. She wondered how Betsey was faring without her. And whether Everett—but she mustn't be disloyal, and think that. It was only that Ev had written since Judy had been on the Island—and that was almost two weeks, now. She checked the mailbox every day, even Sundays, and though Mother and Father and Betsey and even Aunt Rae wrote frequently, Everett hadn't written at all.

And then there was the other disloyal thought that persisted in her mind—Judy could not stop thinking of The Boy. Somehow, she thought of him like that—The Boy. The Boy she had seen, walking along the road, with the sun on his golden curls and a book in his hand. It irritated her that she should still be thinking of him when Everett's ring was tucked neatly under her shirt. But she couldn't help herself. She wondered who he was. She had planned to borrow Tommy's bicycle and go into town to try and find him, but Little Mary was already clapping her hands and saying,

"Good—then it's settled—we'll take a picnic lunch and spend the day at Silver Bush!"

The rolled the top down on Ken's Ford—borrowed for the occasion, though Ken was away for the weekend in Nova Scotia—and Judy listened as the Russell girls talked on about Silver Bush.

"'A serviceable house,'" Rachel called it. "Long and white and low to the ground—May (Judy noticed that Rachel didn't call her 'Aunt May') wanted a ranch house when it was rebuilt, because ranch houses were all the thing. So ugly, it was—all new pink brick! But Uncle Sid put his foot down—he does it so rarely—and had it painted white, and planted lots of vines and things to grow up the walls. So it isn't so bad, now—it almost has a little charm. With Aunt May moved out of it, it gets _charminger_ by the day."

"You should have seen it in its prime," sighed Little Mary, who was old enough to remember such things. "I can still see the old Silver Bush, tall and proud against the row of birches on the hill. With the fields and the orchards sloping down and back—cats prowling around—watching the sunset from the little round window above the stairs. And oh, there was never a nicer place in the world to be than in Judy Plum's bed on a cold winter's night. You were named for Judy Plum, you know, Judy."

"I know," said Judy. She had been told often that she and Betsey had been named for the two best friends mother had ever had—besides Dad, of course. They had tacked Doreen onto it to make Dad happy, but Betsey was Elizabeth Gertrude, like little, long-dead Bets Wilcox.

"Is the Long Lonely House still standing?" Judy wondered curiously. She had heard mother tell stories of spending the night there—of waking in the night to look down the hill at Silver Bush sleeping.

"Yes—but it's been empty for years. A family named Kirk used to own it—and I believe there was a love affair between one of them and your mother," said Win, who knew all of the family gossip.

"Nonsense," Judy sniffed. The idea of Mother—having any other love affair other than Dad! It was ridiculous.

They were turning up a long drive, and the little house came into view. Rachel was right—it was not particularly charming, the house itself—but there was something about the spot surrounding it that made her blood seem to run a little quicker in her veins. Oh, it was dear—just like a postcard—and look at those mellow old fences, with the silver-grey longers and the asters growing through them!

"Aunt May wanted to tear those down," Little Mary explained. "But Uncle Sid never got around to it. And then they moved to Swallowfield, and I was so glad—because I do remember sitting on that old gate when I was a little girl, watching the dark come down. I hate to have things that hold memories for me be destroyed—some of the memory goes along with them, you know."

"Why _did_ May want to move away from here?" Judy wondered. She had seen Swallowfield, and it could be no bigger than this house, and the yard and fields around it weren't half so charming.

"May was never happy, from the moment she set foot in Silver Bush," Rachel pronounced. "She wanted it so desperately for years—and then when she got it, she never had another moment of piece. The house was slapdashed together and things were always going wrong with it. Once when we were over to dinner, a piece of plaster from the ceiling fell right into the soup pot!"

"And the pipes were always bursting, for no particular reason," Win picked up the thread of the story. "And every plant May put into the ground withered away and died, no matter how well she tended it. Her whole herbaceous border was eaten up with bugs though all of the plants from the old garden were untouched."

"But still," said Little Mary, "May might have stayed. She'd fought for Silver Bush—and she wanted it—it was _hers_. So she would have stayed, except for the ghosts."

Mary said 'ghosts' so casually that Judy almost didn't notice. But then she did—and her skin prickled. Even on a sunny green summer's day such as this—well, she did not doubt that the place had a few ghosts about it. "What do you mean?" she asked, in a thrill of gooseflesh.

The twins exchanged glances, and Mary smiled.

"It was like this," Rachel said. "One day old May got it into her head that she wanted that stand of birch-wood cut down. It was blocking her view, she said—view! Of what? Those birches _are_ the view. Anyway, Uncle Sid didn't like it, but you've seen him, Judy. He's given up trying to say no to May. So he agreed, and called some workers to come out and take them down.

"My fine May Binnie was pleased as punch and went out one evening to mark for the workers what trees should be cut. And came running back—I've never seen anyone run so fast!—gasping and panting and half-hysterical. We were over, having supper with Uncle Sid, and May's eyes were just streaming. She couldn't talk just garbled and garbled until Mother slapped her—good. Then May said,

"'I saw Pat—Pat and Judy—walking together under the trees!'"

"We all thought she'd finally gone round the bend. Pat was in Vancouver and Judy had been dead for years. But May insisted. When she'd come up to mark the trunk of the first tree with chalk, she found she could not pass. It was as though an invisible barrier had been set up all around her. And then Pat and Judy came strolling along arm in arm, as they used to walk in the evenings sometimes. And they _smiled_ at May. She would have run but couldn't move, until they passed by, and when she looked after them, they had _disappeared_. May said she wouldn't stay another night at Silver Bush, and so she went to live with her mother. Uncle Tom died the next year and left Uncle Sid Swallowfield, and that's where they've lived ever since."

"Do you think—that what May really saw—was…?" Judy trailed off, not knowing how to phrase it.

"No," said Little Mary softly. "I don't—quite—believe she saw a pair of ghosts. But I do think that what she was seeing was the true _spirit _of Silver Bush—nobody ever loved Silver Bush more than your mother and Judy Plum."

"Mother hardly ever talks of this place," said Judy. "She talks of the fun times she had, but she never really described Silver Bush to me."

"She wouldn't," Mary smiled. It was a sort of sad smile. "Likely it still hurts her too much. When Silver Bush burned she was just a shell—I remember—until your father came and found her, and filled her up with life and love again. But you should take note, as we go over the place, and talk to her about it. She would like to know that it's being well-cared for. The new tenants aren't Gardiners—they're called Lilly—but they're Silver Bushites, all the same."

"We don't know them very well," said Win, linking arms with Judy. "They're rather a young couple, with a passel of boys—I think the oldest is in college and the youngest is still in diapers. All tow-headed things. We offered to mend the fences and to put new floors in when they took the house, but they said very firmly that they preferred things the way they are. They don't mind us coming and prowling around, either, when we feel like it."

"If we _are_ going to prowl 'round," said Rachel peevishly, "I wish we'd get to it. There's a batch of water lilies in the Field of the Pool that I'd like to take specimens of."

They went to the Field of the Pool—Rachel got her lilies. They visited the Mince Pie Field, and the Buttercup Field, where all the buttercups in the world seemed to bloom in an unbroken golden carpet. Judy made a wreath of them to decorate her shining dark hair.

"This is the field of Farewell Summers," Rachel said, gesturing to an unremarkable piece of grassy meadow. "It doesn't look like anything now but it's the loveliest place on earth in September, when the purple asters come out thickly, all over it. It's the best place to see the Hill of the Mist—look how shadowy and purple it looks today, after last night's storm! I do believe we're in for more rain, girls—later."

Later—in the evening—rain would come, but not until their beautiful day of roaming was over, and they were cozy in their beds.

They visited the spicy, spruce-scented Secret Field—which wasn't a secret any longer. Judy had it on good account that Ken and Little Mary trysted here often. They dabbled their feet in the River 'Jordan' and ate their picnic on its banks.

While they finished the pin-wheel cookies that were from Great-Aunt Edith Gardiner's own recipe, Rachel gestured across the water at the field on the opposite side.

"Do you see that house, there, among those trees, Judy? That's the old Adams place—where your father grew up."

Something peculiar happened to Judith's throat when she saw the boxy, cheerless house half-hidden in the wood. It mustn't always have been so ramshackle—but all the same, it was nothing like the Bay Shore, or Swallowfield, or even the present Silver Bush. Judy knew that it must have hurt her father, who loved beautiful houses, to grow up in one that was so ugly. Maybe that was why such a sad look passed through his eyes—every so often.

"Enough," said Little Mary, packing the rest of the cookies away. "If I eat any more I'll never be able to fit into my wedding dress. Come on, twins—let's show Judy the rest of it."

They went to the parsley bed, and laughed while Mary told the story of the night when Judy Plum had rooted around in it and returned with 'Cuddles.' They drank deeply from the old well—"even though it's probably dreadfully unsanitary," said Win—and rambled round the Old orchard, where spruce and apple trees were mixed in with each other in the most inviting way. The New Part of the orchard wasn't tended regularly anymore and had begun to rather look like the Old Part. Finally, they came to the old family graveyard, just as the sun was beginning its descent in the western sky.

The gate, wound round with honeysuckle, creaked as they opened it and walked through, but it was a friendly sound—and only a little reproachful. _So you've come_, all the old long-dead Gardiners seemed to be saying. _Well, you took your time about it, but you're here now. _The very sense of 'all is well' hung about the place.

They spoke in hushed tones as they went from grave to grave—hushed because it suited the place, not out of any real fear. The twins pointed out the grave of Great-great grandmother Jane Wilson, who had been a Quaker. Winnie was said to resemble her in looks—if not in temperament. They laughed over great-great-great grandfather Nehemiah Gardiner's name—Tommy was named for him, Winnie said, giggling. He was Thomas Nehemiah Russell.

"How awful!" Judy said, giggling herself. _Poor _Tommy!

Mary told the stories of Wild Dick, the sailor who had fought with sharks, and may have resorted to cannibalism—_may_ have. And the story of Weeping Willy, who (though she did not say it) reminded Judy a little of Betsey. Well, she supposed things like that ran in families—though she did love her dear sister so.

The mystery grave—_To my own dear Emily and our little Lilian_. How sad it was! Judy traced the engaved letters curiously. Who had they been?

"Nobody knows who they _were_," Win said. "But they're Gardiners by now—they've been here long enough. Mother always loved this little grave—she named me and Rachel after it. Rachel Emily and Winifred Lilian Russell."

And there was a new-ish flat sandstone slab that bore Judith's own heritage: it was 'Sacred to the memory' of Judy Plum, born in Ireland, 1878; died at Silver Bush, PEI, in November of 1944. There was a raised wreath of forget-me-nots on it and below that the motto: _Well done good and faithful servant_.

"Judy was more than a servant," Little Mary said. "Why, she was _family_ to us. We all loved her so. It is a great thing to be named after such a woman, Judy-ours—don't forget it."

Judy nodded, and the girls left the little graveyard in silence. While they walked, Judy wondered what it was like, to be old, and to have your whole life behind you. Why—hers hadn't even begun yet—not really. She wondered dimly where she would be buried. Why, she supposed it would be next to Everett—although the idea struck her as slightly ridiculous. Why should it? Didn't she wear his ring on a chain around her neck? But—it _was_ ridiculous. Her whole life was before her, waiting to be lived! Her heart beat a little quickly as she remembered The Boy—and the sun on his bright hair.

"Oh," said Mary, when they had almost reached the car. "I forgot, girls—I promised Mrs. Lilly to stop by and pick up her recipe for ribbon cake. I do so want one at my wedding—it wouldn't be a true Gardiner wedding without one. Do you mind if we stop off for a moment?"

The windows of Silver Bush were lighted cheerfully and good smells were coming through the open kitchen door. They went around to the back and knocked. Someone was singing inside—a hymn—_Onward, Christian Soldiers_. There was a scuffle and then the door opened, and Judy drew in with a gasp.

There he was—The Boy! He was wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of shorts but he held a book in his hand, as though he'd just been reading—was it the same book? Judy felt as though she could not breathe properly. He was looking right at her—what a delicious shade of blue his eyes were—blue like the sky, on a perfect spring day.

They tramped into the kitchen and Mary transacted her business, and all the while Judy felt as though her heart might beat painfully out of her chest. But it was such a _delightful_ pain. Wouldn't he look at her again? And then he _did_—and she felt she might swoon with pleasure of it.

Would she get the chance to talk to him? Oh—Little Mary was thanking Mrs. Lilly and they were saying goodnight—they were going out the door—they were almost to the car. Judy felt quite like crying. Little Mary had just started the engine when Judy cried, "Wait!" She jumped out of the car and ran back to the kitchen door, her heart pumping so that she saw black spots before her eyes.

She hammered on the door—and _he_ opened it again.

"Oh," Judy gasped. "I just realized—I didn't introduce myself."

He was looking at her amusedly and Judy flushed. _I'm getting as bad as Betsey_, she thought. "It—It would be terribly rude for me not to introduce myself," she explained. "I'm Judith Gordon—I'm staying at the Bay Shore."

"I'm Hugh Lilly," _he_ said.

"Judy!" called the girls, from the drive, and Little Mary tootled the horn. Judy looked back in anguish. Oh, why couldn't they leave her alone? She made herself step back and down the steps. When she had reached the gate she looked back.

"I hope we get the chance to see each other again," she called to Hugh, who was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by light.

"I hope so, too," Hugh said. "Goodbye."

Judith hugged herself all the way home. She would find a way to see him again—she would—she was sure of it. For although he had said _goodbye_ she had heard it in his tone.

He was really saying _hello_.


	6. Judy Throws a Party

Judy could not stop thinking of Hugh for the entire day and night that followed her encounter with him. His very name—Hugh Lilly!—left a wild, outland taste on her mouth and a thrill in her heart. She thought, lying back on the sunwashed grass of the Bay Shore lawn that his had been a very expressive face. Why, she had really ever only been in his presence for a minute—two at the most. But such a lot of moods had crossed over him in those minutes and she longed to know each one intimately.

He had seemed amused by her—and he had seemed interested in her—but not, Judy writhed, as _boy_ is interested in a _girl_. He had just seemed to be interested in her as a curious happening. _What shall I make of you? _his eyes had said—but then there was no urgency in them, no drive to make him want to find out, right away, so Judy despaired.

She found herself being reminded of Hugh at the strangest times. While she bicycled into town she passed a row of gleaming haystacks in a field and was reminded of the way Hugh Lilly's hair had shone in the sun. When she and the twins went to the beach and romped in the surf, Judy remembered the deep blue of his eyes. And when she was alone, quite by herself, she remembered the silliest things: the little quirk at the corner of his wide mouth, and the fine bones of his wrists.

And then she would remember Everett. Oh, she was too mean, to forget him! But then—hadn't he forgotten her? She had not had word one from him since she had come to the Island. Perhaps Betsey had forgotten to deliver her letter—but that would not be like Bets—and anyway, Everett knew where she was. Judy had printed her information on a card neatly and clearly and had given it to him before she left. Oh, she did not know why he hadn't written! She didn't know why she should not care more.

She only knew that she must see Hugh Lilly again.

She was biking back from the boutique in town—it might be poky, but she had needed a new pair of sunglasses, her only ones having been inadvertently sat upon by Uncle Fred—when the idea came to her. If only there could be some sort of gathering, where she could be sure that all the young folks would be, all together—then she would perhaps get the chance to talk to him again. Some sort of gathering—like—like a party! Judy was so surprised by her own ingeniousness that she lifted her hands from her handlebars and was pitched headfirst into the ditch by the side of the road. She hardly even noticed the stings on her knees, and when she got back to the Bay Shore she waved her wounded hand carelessly when Aunt Winnie tried to tend to her.

"I don't want help—oh, Aunt Winnie—I want to throw a party—here—at the Bay Shore. May I? You see, I am so _bored_…"

Aunt Winnie's face fell and Judy saw that she should not have said it. She did not even mean it. She was not as bored by this provincial place as she thought she would be, before she came. In fact, there were times when its peacefulness and languor touched something deep in her soul. She had only meant to be very convincing, so that Aunt Winnie would agree to let her have a party. Her cheeks flushed with shame.

"I—I'm sorry," she told her aunt. "I don't mean that. And I know very well that I don't deserve a party. It was rude of me to ask. After all—I wasn't—sent here—to have fun."

But Aunt Winnie had recovered, and put her arm around Judy's suntanned shoulders.

"I know that this isn't supposed to be a vacation, Judith, dear," she said seriously. "But I don't think Pat and Hillary meant for you to be fed on bread and water for six weeks, either. I think a _little_ fun is called for—and we haven't had a party at the Bay Shore in so long. Of course there's Little Mary's wedding, later on in the summer, but something in the meantime wouldn't hurt, either. It will be just the thing, I think. Why, I'm already looking forward to it, myself."

Judy threw her arms around her aunt and skipped downstairs to tell her cousins.

"A party!" breathed Rachel.

"How keen!" Win cried.

Little Mary's eyes glowed, and she said, "The roses will be in bloom by then."

The Russell brood was a quick and lively and efficient one, so Judith soon found. She had scarcely mentioned the word party before the twins were poring over old recipes and designing invitations—cut in the shape of stars, with each guest's name printed on the front. Little Mary was planning centerpieces. Perhaps, she thought, they could have miniature paper lanterns in the trees. Tommy and Frankie agree to lend their record player and the cry went up for all of the area's young fry to bring along their latest LPs to dance to.

The guest list was hotly debated. The Russells seemed to be related, by blood or marriage, to nearly all the young people in town.

"'Aunt' Kathie's girls will have to come, I suppose," Win sighed. "Alice and Bobbie are fine—but I don't like that Jill Madison. Still, we can't leave them out."

"And then there is the matter of the Binnies." Rachel matched her sister's tone. "Nobody wants them, but they'll come anyway—they haven't the sense to stay away from where nobody wants them. I'd rather just invite them than to have them as gatecrashers—they'll cause less trouble that way. _Maybe_."

Little Mary added Ken's sisters to the list. Judy had met Yuki and Ami Sato at a picnic the week before, and though they were silent, they were as beautiful and pale as the rice lilies that grew down by the pond. They would certainly add a decorative air to the event, even if they didn't talk to anyone.

"And I was thinking," Judy said, pretending as though it had just crossed her mind, "That it would be nice to invite those Silver Bush people. The Linleys, I think their name was?"

"The Lillys!" Win and Rachel chorused, putting their names down. "Walt Lilly is a swell dancer—and Rudy Lilly is always good for a laugh." She did not mention Hugh but Judy saw with satisfaction that his name _had_ been added to the list.

She knew that of course he would come. How could he not? They had already had calls and cards from everyone else they had invited, and they had even had a card from Silver Bush printed with the words, 'Can't wait.' So Judy felt very content as she surveyed the backyard on the afternoon of the party. It was almost evening now, and in a little while all the picnic tables, covered with gay-patterned paper clothes, would be full of boys and girls. The music would be wafting over the night, and couples would be dancing on the makeshift dance floor, illuminated only by the paper lanters—which Tommy and Frankie were hanging just now—and the moon. The eats table looked scrumptious as anything Judy had seen in Vancouver, and she went upstairs to dress full of excitement for the night to come.

She was even more satisfied when she saw her reflection, after she had dressed. Oh, she was _right_ to bring this melon-colored halter dress. It brought out the ruddy tints in her dark hair and made her cheeks shine pink so that she did not need any rouge. Well, maybe a _little_ rouge. And likewise a _little _mascara—and eyeliner—and eyeshadow—there. She stepped into a pair of espadrilles and ran downstairs just in time to hear the door-bell.

The invitations had said seven o'clock and it seemed that nobody on the Island went by the policy of arriving fashionably late. By seven-thirty the backyard was filled to bursting with girls in colorful dresses and boys with their hair slicked neatly back. The music and voices were so loud that you had to almost shout to be heard, and Win's pale green 'millionaire's salad' was being devoured by the plateful. Judy stood on tiptoe to scan the crowd and saw Little Mary dancing with Ken, her cheek pressed close to his, though the song was upbeat, and others were jitterbugging. Winnie and Rachel were talking to two remarkably similar-looking boys and Judy recognized them as the Cooper twins from over near Carmody. There were a few faces she recognized from here and there and Sally Roberts, who worked in the boutique in the mornings.

But where was Hugh? A sudden coolness seemed to descend on the whole scene, and for the first time all evening Judy felt a flicker of doubt.

She flicked her ponytail angrily over her shoulder and decided what to do. Why—Aunt Winnie was talking to a tall woman that Judy recognized—it was _Mrs. _Lilly. Judy, who had been heading toward the center of the crowd for a better vantage point, suddenly switched directions, causing a laughing boy and girl to almost run her down trying to do the twist.

"Aunt Winnie! Mrs. Lilly!" she cried, so excited that she interrupted the women's conversation without meaning to. Aunt Winnie sent her a slightly reproachful look, but Judy was too interested in Mrs. Lilly to notice.

"I love your dress," she said, to the older woman, with some surprise. Mrs. Lilly _was_ wearing a beautiful, soft-knit camel-colored shift with a bright patterned scarf wound round her hair, and smooth, satiny flats—like Audrey Hepburn, Judy thought. She was surprised. She had thought that the Lilly's must be positive hicks like the rest of the islanders, but Mrs. Lilly looked so sophisticated that Judy almost felt frumpish herself.

Mrs. Lilly thanked Judy gracefully for the compliment. "I got it from a boutique in Seattle last year."

"Seattle!" Judy cried. Why, Seattle was only a little way from Vancouver. "Do you live there?"

"No," said Mrs. Lilly, smiling. "We travel a lot, for my husband's work—I suppose you could say we're like gypsies, really. We have Silver Bush in the summers, of course—and a house in Montreal—but we spend most of the year in New York."

New York! Judy felt crestfallen. New York was the absolute _furthest_. She was so disappointed that she could not speak for a moment, and in that moment, Mrs. Lilly turned back to Aunt Winnie. "Your roses _are_ marvelous this year—I wish I could get mine to—"

"Excuse me," Judith interrupted, again, and this time Aunt Winnie's eyes flashed dangerously. But Judy was too concerned to notice, again. "I wondered—Mrs. Lilly—if your boys perhaps had come tonight? I—I wanted to get to know them—you see—because…" she trailed away, not knowing how to finish.

Mrs. Lilly smiled in a friendly way. "They're over at the refreshments table," she said, pointing them out. "Eating everything in their path, like locusts." Judy looked and saw two or three fair-headed boys doing just that—eating—but…

But she did not see Hugh. She was about to ask again when Mrs. Lilly continued,

"All except Hugh—he was in a solitary mood, tonight, I'm afraid. He was in the middle of a good book and wanted to stay in to finish it. The house is so noisy most of the time that he craves the little peace and quiet he can get—why, Winnie, do you suppose I said something wrong?"

For Judy had turned and run away, her eyes full of bitter, angry tears. Hugh had not come! He had wanted to stay home—to finish a book! It was the bitterest gall and she could not believe it. All of her work—on the party and on her own appearance—had been for naught. She ran down a little flagstone path leading to the woods, feeling absolutely desolate. She had even left off Everett's ring tonight—in case—but now she felt utterly bare without it. Oh, if only he had—_oof_!

She had very nearly stumbled over something—someone—two someones—in the dark. A pair of white-haired girls—one scrawny, one plump—were sitting together on a moss-covered log and Judy noticed at once that one girl's dress was extremely low cut over the bosom—and the other's was covered with garish rhinestones. And—and—there was the acrid reek of cigarette smoke in the air. She coughed, and two pairs of gleaming, green eyes turned cattily in her direction.

"Well, well, well," drawled a voice, and the hairs on Judy's neck stood up at the mocking tone. "What on earth do we have _here_?"


	7. Two Binnies, and a Kirk

"What on earth do we have here?" repeated the scrawny blond girl—the one with the low-cut dress. Her green eyes looked Judy up and down in the dim light, taking her in from her espadrilles to her pony-tail. Judy could see at once that the other girl's dress was cheap and poorly-made. Low-cut sat her notice this, and her eyes narrowed.

"I know who _you_ are," she said, lifting her cigarette to her mouth and exhaling a plume of smoke in Judy's direction. She elbowed her fat companion in the ribs and Rhinestones giggled. She seemed impossible of doing anything else, and had been giggling helplessly since Judy had stumbled upon them.

"I'm afraid I don't know you," said Judy haughtily. She refused to be taken down to these girls' level—which she could already see was quite a few notches below her own. She waited, but neither girl made a move to introduce herself.

"You shouldn't be smoking," Judy added, waving her hand in front of her face to dispel the acrid scent.

Low-cut laughed out loud, but Rhinestones only giggled as was her lot.

"To think they say you are a 'bad' girl!" Low-cut marveled, taking another drag. She looked Judy up and down again, more critically this time. "You look just like the rest of the Russells—wholesome and peachy to a fault. Well, Pat Gardiner always did over-react about things. Likely you aren't so very bad at all. Sheep can never be, you know."

Judy resented being called a sheep but resented more the slight on her mother.

"I'd prefer if you would keep your comments about my family to yourself," she said coldly. "You can't know them very well, after all."

"Oh!" giggled Rhinestones. "But we do. We _are_ your family, in a way."

Judy reeled back, disgusted. To think that she might be related to girls—like this! It made rage bubble up in her blood, to think that these girls claimed any relationship to the good Bay Shore folks. Low-cut decided to let the secret out at last.

"I'm Flora Royce," she said. "Flora _Binnie_ Royce." She pronounced her second name as though it were the password to a world of purple and ermine. "That's Lolo," she said, indicating the other girl—her sister?—with a wave of her skeletal hand.

Lolo giggled.

"Our Aunt May married your Uncle Sid," Flora went on. "So you see we're actually cousins."

Judy could not help but sneer at the pretension of this girl! To _claim_ to be related—to _her_, Judith Gordon! "By _marriage_," she said loftily, implying that to be related by marriage was no great thing at all.

Flora caught her implication and her scowl deepened. "I know _all_ about you," she hissed. "Your Pat Gardiner's girl—I would have recognized you anywhere. Mother always said that Rachel Gardiner was the snootiest person she ever knew—except for her sister, Pat. When they have absolutely the least in the world to be snooty _about_. Your Aunt Rae lived among heathens and your _father_ is a penniless orphan."

Judy bristled, a white heat flaring in her eyes. She had never before taken such an instant dislike to anyone as she had to Flora Royce. But two could play at this game. "I know about _you_, too," she spit, matching Flora's tone. "_Your_ mother was married at seventeen because she was afraid of never getting anyone else—and your aunt May _tricked_ Uncle Sid into marrying her! And my father might have been penniless once—but he isn't now." Judith swished the skirt of her well-made dress as though to prove her point.

"Why, you…!" Flora yelped, and if it hadn't been for Lolo grabbing her hem she would have launched herself at Judy's head.

"If you lay one hand on me you shall regret it all your life," said Judith simply. Flora's bosom heaved so that she was in danger of falling out of her flimsy dress.

"You'd better watch yourself around me from now on," Flora cried, angry tears collecting in her eyes. Her face was an ugly shade of green that looked positively ghastly with her whitish hair.

"I'm not afraid of you," said Judy nonchalantly, inspecting her fingernails as though she were not bothered at all by the other girl's threat. "I'm never afraid of _trash_. I just throw it in the rubbish bin, where it belongs."

This time Flora made a low noise from her throat and _did_ fly at Judy, her hands outstretched like claws. They flashed through the air, inches from Judy's face, but Judy sidestepped her gracefully, so that Flora sailed past her, over a fallen log, and into a patch of mud. She could not help but laugh as the girl picked herself up, her face covered except for her green eyes, which flared nastily.

"This is the last straw!" Flora cried, but just at that moment the branches parted and a woman appeared, looking disdainfully at the scene before her.

She was not a pretty woman—she had a mouth 'like a gargoyle,' thought Judy disloyally before she noticed that the woman had a dreamy look to her eyes, and a graceful manner of bearing despite her work shirt and her old-fashioned dungarees. Her hair was dark, streaked with gray, but her eyes were large and expressive and she had the most delicate hands. Right now she was turning her large and expressive eyes on Flora and Lolo with an expression of reproach.

"You girls should not be smoking here," she said sternly, and Judy understood from her voice that she _would_ be obeyed. "If you leave now and go home I shall not tell your mother—unless I catch you at it again. Go on, now."

Lolo made an immediate, hasty retreat, but Flora stood seething for a moment longer. But then she, too, turned and followed her sister down the lane. The smoke dissipated, and the smell of Flora's perfume was borne away by the wind. Judy found that the place was pleasant now, this moonlit glade, and turned to her rescuer, quite abashed.

"_I _wasn't smoking," she explained, feeling her cheeks burn. "I know it sounds so—lame—but I really wasn't. I just happened to stumble across those girls. They aren't friends of mine."

The woman laughed, and seated herself on the log where the 'Binnie' girls had been sitting. "I know you aren't friends with them," she said seriously, but her eyes were laughy. "A Gardiner could _never_ be."

Judy sat beside her, curious. "How did you know I am a Gardiner?" she asked. "Of course I'm not—really—I'm a Gordon. But my mother was a Gardiner—Pat Gardiner."

"I could tell just by looking at you," said her companion. "I was a good friend of your mother's—once—my name is Suzanne Kirk. _Was_ Suzanne Kirk—it is Suzanne Douglas, now. Although I suppose…" she faded off into a sad sort of silence.

Judy's wheels were turning, trying to place the name. She was certain she had heard it before. Suzanne Douglas—oh! She remembered now. Every so often mother would comment rather wistfully over supper that she had had a card from Suzanne, and how she hoped they would have the chance to get together soon. But they never really did. And this _was_ Suzanne—that Suzanne.

Suzanne stretched her long legs out in front of her and regarded Judy. "Which one of Pat's girls are you?" she asked. "I do believe I'm godmother to you—if you're Betsey."

"I'm Judith," Judy explained. "Aunt Enid is my godmother, I'm afraid." She had always envied Betsey for having a young, glamorous-sounding godmother, even if she never got to see her. They saw Aunt Enid all the time—and she was lovely—but stodgy in a way that Judy's fresh young mind could not understand.

"Well, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance anyway," Suzanne said. "My, you're like Pat. It gives me goose-shivers to behold you. I half expect to blink my eyes and to find us up at the Long Lonely House, as we used to spend so many evenings—me, and Pat, and…" she broke off suddenly.

"My brother died last year," she said, looking at Judy from the corners of her eyes. "I never wrote your mother to tell her—I supposed she would not want to know. Do you think I did right?"

Judy thought for a while. "I think mother would have wanted to know—if they were friends," she said finally. "Mother values her friends very highly."

"They _were_ friends," Suzanne said, in a low voice. "Even after everything else—I think they were still friends, yes."

"How," Judy wondered, "How on earth—I mean—won't you tell me why the Binnie girls were afraid of you?"

Suzanne smiled, her good spirits restored. "Binnies are always afraid of what is good and right and true," she explained. "They don't understand that kind of mentality. But I think," she dimpled further, "That they are mostly afraid of me because I'm to be the principal at the high school here next year."

"Oh," Judy said, understandingly.

"You see," Suzanne, Judy saw, seemed to be the kind of person who liked to pour her heart out, "My own husband died last year, too. And I didn't quite know what to do. We were living in Halifax when we were first married, and then we went to New York. I couldn't stay in New York without Edgar—and I thought that I had always been so happy here—so I came back. But it is quite different with David—and Pat—gone. Not how it used to be." Her smile turned lopsided before she steadied it with effort.

"Well, I am very glad you did come back," Judy said, and found she meant it. "I think we are going to be good friends."

"Do you?" Suzanne smiled. "Well, I hope that we may be. It's been a long time since I've had a friend—a really _good_ friend. And now do you think that we should go back to the party?"

They did, and Judy found that the curious hurt in her heart had gone away. She was suddenly famished and went and filled her plate, and sat down at a table of girls, laughing and chattering away. Suzanne Kirk—somehow Judy could not help but think of her as Suzanne Kirk—had found Uncle Sid and was telling him something in a low voice. She could not help noticing how Uncle Sid seemed to be watching Suzanne with—something—attentive in his eyes. But that was ridiculous—wasn't it? He was married, after all.

All in all, Judy reflected, after the guests had gone, and she was climbing the stairs to her room, the party was not as big a disappointment as it might have been. But then—it hadn't turned out quite the way she'd wanted, either. She woke up at three o'clock and writhed in renewed embarrassment. Why—oh, why!—had Hugh not come?


	8. Betsey Makes a Discovery

_I'm going to kill that Everett Miles, if I ever see him again_, Betsey read from Judith's latest letter. _Why on earth hasn't he answered ANY of the letters I've sent to him? _Betsey writhed as she read the next line: _It's as though he doesn't care about me at all. I never expected Ev to be so mean. _

If only Judy knew that it was _Betsey_ who was being mean! Betsey quaked to think about what Judy would make to that. She darted a guilty glance at her desk, where a pile of perfume-scented letters were hidden under a book. It was Betsey who was being mean—she had not yet worked up the courage to deliver Everett his mail.

She flopped back on her bed with a sigh. She knew quite well that she was Judy's only hope of getting word to her boy-friend; Aunt Winnie had been instructed not to post any mail from Judy to Everett. So Judy hid his letters in her letters to her twin. And Betsey was where the whole chain broke down. She couldn't—_couldn't_—just go knock on Everett's door and…! And _what_?

"Betsey!" Mother called from downstairs. "I'm on my way to the store—would you like to come with me?"

Betsey jumped up and slipped her shoes on, stopping at her desk long enough to shove those horrid letters in her drawer, where she could not see them. But still, the thought that she was being disloyal to Judy nagged at the edges of her consciousness as she ran downstairs and out to the car.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Pat! Pat Gordon!" cried a plump, golden-curled lady in an orange housedress as Betsey and her mother turned down the canned goods aisle at Bert's Grocery. Betsey felt the same fleeting panic that she always felt when faced with conversation with someone she didn't know, but her mother only smiled warmly.

"Why, Mary Jean Kelly!" she said, cheerfully. "I'd been hoping to run into you! I've been dying for the recipe for that tuna casserole you served at last week's block party. Do you suppose I could use _egg_ noodles instead of rice…?"

Betsey watched her mother as she talked with Patty Kelly's mother. She was so confident, so friendly! Betsey knew that her mother did not especially like Mrs. Kelly because she was a horrid gossip. But you would never know that from watching her now. Why, Betsey wondered, was it so easy for some people to be out-going, and so hard for others? Betsey was her mother's daughter, after all—so why hadn't she inherited the same ease and friendliness? Of course father was quiet—but even he did not shrink from things as Betsey did…

Pat nudged her daughter, who looked lost in thought, so that she came back to earth. Betsey realized that Mrs. Kelly was talking to her now, and her face burned with hot embarrassment. She hoped she would not say anything stupid.

"I was wondering," Mrs. Kelly repeated, "If you'd be willing to bring something along to Patty's party tomorrow night. It is supposed to be pot-luck, after all, and I've been told you're a _fabulous_ cook."

Pat grinned at the woman's dramatic emphasis of Betsey's cooking skills, but Betsey's face only burned brighter and hotter. A party, tomorrow? She had not known about any party. She—well. She had not known about it, because she had not been invited.

Mother was looking at her so expectantly. Betsey bit her lip and struggled to find something to say. She could not _tell_ Mrs. Kelly that she had not been invited because it would mean telling mother, too—and mother would be so disappointed. And there was the chance that her famous Gardiner temper would flare up. Betsey did not want her mother to demand to know _why_ Betsey hadn't been invited. She would _die_ of mortification.

"I'm afraid I can't come tomorrow," said Betsey finally. "I would love to—" and she _would_, deep down!—"But I've got to go to the library," she finished, knowing how lame it sounded. To go to the library on a Saturday in June! Mrs. Kelly would think she was even more pathetic than she was.

"Oh," said Mrs. Kelly, faintly.

"Oh?" said Mother, with a slight questioning tone to her voice.

"I'm sorry," said Betsey, on the verge of tears. "I—please excuse me. I just remembered I need—something…" She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of another aisle and fled, humiliated to her very core.

Mother was quiet in the car on the ride home. She seemed to know that Betsey had told a lie, in the way that she always did—and lying was a cardinal sin in the Gordon household. She did not say anything—she only _looked_ at Betsey reproachfully and went indoors, carrying the groceries, with a very cool and dignified air.

Betsey sat on the steps and dissolved into the tears that had been threatening all afternoon. She brushed them furiously away and pulled a hanky from her pocketbook to blow her nose. She dropped it, and it fluttered to the ground beside the steps. Betsey reached down to get it and her fingers brushed something flat and papery.

She drew up a bright pink envelope—with her name on it. Why—here it was, an invitation to Patty's party! She supposed that father must have dropped it when he came in with the mail last night. She had been invited, and for a moment her spirits soared.

Until she remembered that she had already told Mrs. Kelly she could not come. And she could not back out of her story now—it would look odd. Betsey had a dreadful fear of looking strange or odd to anyone. She folded the invitation and placed it regretfully in her pocket. That was the problem with lying, she thought, as she went inside. It left you very little wiggle room, if you needed it.

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She set off for the library resolutely after lunch the next day. She had said she was going and so she must—and she resolved to do it as cheerfully as she could. Mrs. Frantz, the librarian, had called yesterday to say that they had gotten _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and Betsey wanted very much to read it. So she set off, her head high.

Her shoulders _did_ droop a little bit as she passed Patty Kelly's house. Sounds of music and laughter and splashing could be heard from the backyard. Betsey watched wistfully, thinking how easy it would be to just go and knock on the gate and say there'd been a mistake. Perhaps she could even tell Patty about how silly she'd been, thinking she wasn't invited, and then finding she had been after all! They could all laugh about it together, even!

But then the moment passed and Betsey put her hands to her flushed cheeks and hurried away. Easy! Why, she could never _easily_ do something—like that. And it was likely Patty would laugh—all of them would laugh—at Betsey. She continued on.

The library was cool and dark and pleasant and Betsey thought that perhaps it wasn't such a bad way to spend the day after all. At least she'd be cool—and get something new to read. She returned _Jane Eyre_ and accepted the Harper Lee book, and decided to browse a while before going back out into the heat of the day.

She was in the British fiction section when something made her look up. Far away in the corner, a boy was bent over a thick novel. He was reading voraciously, his glossy dark head supported by one hand, his lower lip thoughtful and serious. He looked up when he turned the page and Betsey felt a jolt go through her, from head to toe.

Why—it was Everett—Judy's Everett! She had never expected to find him here, of all places, so that she almost could not believe it _was_ him. But as she moved closer, carefully hidden by the shelves of books, she became more sure. She recognized that black leather jacket, and the mole on the back of his neck. It _was_ Ev. At the _library_.

She had never supposed he liked reading, or that he even _could_ read. (Oh, of course he _could_, it was just…) She had never supposed that _Everett_ might enjoy reading. Did he, Betsey wondered, lose himself in books—the way she did? It seemed inconceivable. Did he turn the pages eagerly, waiting for what happened next—did he lie awake at night, thinking of the characters—did he regard them as though they were real people? Without hesitating Betsey moved forward to see if she could catch a glimpse of what he was reading. She edged forward—just a little more—and if she leaned over…

There was a terrific crash as the shelf Betsey was leaning on wobbled and tipped to the floor, scattering books everywhere. _Everyone_ looked up—Everett included—and Betsey saw a curious look pass through his dark eyes as she began to shake with embarrassment. He might have smiled—Betsey saw it as she turned and fled—but she was sure, positively certain, that he was laughing at her. He did not laugh out loud but all the same she could _hear _it—following her out of the library and all the way home.


	9. Judy Makes a Friend

Suzanne Douglas had been staying at the Carmody Hotel but in the first week of June she decided to go back to the Long Lonely House

Suzanne Douglas had been staying at the Carmody Hotel but in the first week of June she decided to go back to the Long Lonely House. The Carmody was far too fancy for her, she told Judy, who could not understand it. She thought the Carmody absolutely scrumptious, with its gilt furnishings and sparkling chandeliers. But Suzanne, with her mannish clothes and wild hair, was very firm. She did not like things on such a grand scale.

Once Judy had visited the Long Lonely House and seen Suzanne in her element she had to agree that the place suited her far better than the lavish hotel. It was sparsely furnished and dusty—but Suzanne soon took care of that. She was no housekeeper but paid each of Kathie Madison's little girls to come up and give it a once-over.

"The Madisons are fastidious creatures," she remarked, running her finger along the spotless mantelpiece. "Those horrid Binnie girls were up asking if they could 'be of service' but I turned them away—they don't want to work, they want the money. I know what I'd find later—streaks on my windows and dust bunnies shuffled off into corners. I am glad we kept this house in the family all those years. Oh, oh, Judy—throw those drapes back and let's look at our sparkling sunset together."

Judy did as she was bade and joined Suzanne on the squashy, old-fashioned sofa. She took a mug of tea and wrapped her hands about it. "Why _did_ you keep this house?" she wondered. "I mean, if you never visited it?" It seemed silly to Judy to have a house in a place that you never went.

Suzanne's face grew a little melancholy. "My brother wouldn't sell it," she said simply. "He made me promise I wouldn't—after he was gone."

"But why did he love it so?"

"He said it was the place where he had been happiest. He said he'd never been happier in any other place on earth."

Judy looked at the motto that ran in old-fashioned letters around the fireplace:

_There be three gentle and goodlie things_

_To be here, _

_To be together_

_And to think well of one another_,

And as the rays of the sunset splendor came in and touched the tips of her hair, turning them to a burnished copper, she thought that perhaps David Kirk had been right to feel the way he did.

"So," Suzanne sat cross-legged on the couch and turned to Judy. "Now that we have decided to be the best of friends, you must tell me all about yourself."

"Well," Judy began. She did not know what Suzanne meant. In the days since they had first met at the party they had talked of a great many things, and Suzanne already knew about Betsey, about mother, about their house in Vancouver, about father's architectural business. What else was there to know? "We have a cat named Pop-in-Jay," she offered, doubtfully.

Suzanne laughed. "I don't mean things like _that_. I want to know about _you_, Judy—what are the secrets of your heart? What do you want out of life?"

Judy thought of Everett, his black hair, and the way it felt to wrap her arms around him and to fly down the streets on the back of his motor-bike, the wind in her hair. She thought about how, in the very short time she had been away from him, Ev's memory already seemed to be fading—how the little ring she had worn around her neck had started to feel so much like a fetter that she had simply left it off one morning and never put it back on. It was buried at the bottom of her suitcase now.

She was beginning to think that she _had_ been foolish—just as foolish as mother and father thought—to think that she and Ev were ready to be engaged. Why, she was just a girl! Mother had been _twice_ Judy's age when she had married. It seemed to Judith as though there was still a heap of living left to do. Living not alone—but on her own.

And there was Hugh Lilly. Oh, Judy was _mad _at him, but she didn't know why. He had done nothing to her. The only reason she could think of for being upset was that she maybe could have cared for him—only he didn't seem to think about her at all. And it frightened her, too, that she had been so ready to give up her freedom—her _family_—for Everett Miles, when she had never felt _half_ the feeling for Ev in all the years she'd known him that she did for Hugh Lilly, having only seen him a handful of times.

Her cheeks flamed crimson, and Suzanne leant over to pat her knee.

"Perhaps we're not _that_ good of friends yet," she said understandingly. "But we will be, and you can tell me all about it then."

Her eyes twinkled and Judy knew that it would be just as Suzanne said.

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Judy had never had a friend like Suzanne in her whole life. Oh, she had heaps and heaps of chums back home—so many friends that she had to apportion them out, see them in rounds in order to make them fit into her life. Judy realized that the problem with having so many friends was that you never really got to know any one of them very well. Suzanne liked the smell of balsam fir needles, and she thought that one should spend an hour every day in solitariness, out-of-doors, preferably, if one was to really know one's self. Judy thought of Patty Kelly—her best friend besides Betsey—and she realized that she didn't really know anything _real_ about Patty. Oh, she knew that Patty thought Tab Hunter was dreamy, that halter necked outfits made her shoulders look wide—but she did not know what Patty thought about _life_. It was the same with Joanie Morrison, with Bobbie, with Meg…with all of them.

There were always little petty jealousies going around—when Judy had started letting Everett take her out on dates Bobbie O'Neill had been positively green-eyed and hadn't spoken to her for weeks. But with Suzanne, there was never anything like that. Suzanne seemed to be happy when Judy was happy, and sad when she was sad, and Judy had never known anything like it before in her life. Of course she loved Betsey, and Little Mary, and the twins; they were her friends. But they were also family.

It was different to have someone want to be your friend when they didn't _have_ to.

Judy did not know how much she depended on Suzanne for companionship until she went away for a few days in the middle of Judy's third week on the island. She was going to Charlottetown, to meet some friends who had come up from New York, and would bring them back with her. Judy felt a little jealousy that Suzanne should have other friends. They would be more her age and probably she liked them better than she liked Judy. Suzanne came back—Judy could see the lights of the Long Lonely House, shining far away in the distance—and she imagined a glamorous party. Perhaps Suzanne would even tell them about Judith, those New York friends. "Such a little girl," she would say. "And yet she thinks she's all grown up?"

Judy went out on the porch with cousin Frankie's guitar. She had found it in his room and she was sure he would not mind her using it. It was dusty, and out of tune—not at all like her shining rosewood instrument at home. She plucked a few chords of a baroque piece she had learned the summer before, when she had been determined to be a folk singer like Joan Baez. Funny how she was always throwing herself into things and then forgetting about them. Her teacher had said she had talent, and had been disappointed when she stopped going to lessons.

"You never cease to amaze me!" Judy almost dropped the guitar in fright at the sound of Suzanne's voice. "You never told me you were musical, Judy."

Judy was torn between wanting to be frosty and wanting to be delighted at seeing her friend again. "I guess it never came up," she said, her tone falling somewhere in between.

Suzanne clapped her hands. "This is marvelous! Would you believe, Judy, that I've come down to invite you up to a musicale tomorrow night? I play the violin—two of my friends play flute and cello—and we were feeling musical, so we decided. We're having a pianist come in and now we'll have a guitarist, too!"

"I don't know about that," Judy said quickly. "I'm not _that_ good. Not good enough to play in front of people."

"Nonetheless, you must come," Suzanne said. "I've been missing you. And I've told Danny and Bernice all about you and they are enchanted."

And just like that, all of Judy's ill-will melted away. Suzanne _had_ been thinking about her. She felt a little ashamed of her babyish behavior.

"I'll be there," she said.

The next night she biked over to Long Lonely with her guitar strapped to her handlebars and met Danny, a funny bald man with the warmest smile Judy had ever seen, and Bernice, a tall black-haired woman who wore her hair sleek in a chignon. They were the most sophisticated people Judy had ever met, and they _did_ seem happy to meet her.

"I bet the boys are falling at your feet," Danny said, pumping her hand.

"Not quite," said Judy, thinking of Hugh.

"They will be, and mark my words," Uncle Sid said. Judy had been surprised to find Uncle Sid there—he and Suzanne seemed to be old friends, but she did not mind. Uncle Sid had a thin, lonely look about him. Judy was glad to see him happy, for a change, and without Aunt May, who had no interest in music of any kind.

The gong at the door sounded and Suzanne jumped up. "That's our pianist!" she cried. "Now we can get started." She went away into the hallway and came back with—Judy almost dropped her glass of lemonade!

Hugh Lilly was standing there, in the parlor of the Long Lonely House, with a sheaf of music under his arm.

He was so handsome, with his fair curls and his snapping blue eyes. Judy thought she would swoon while Suzanne introduced him around—"And that's Judith—Judy— Gordon, a particular friend of mine and a very talented budding guitarist."

Judy held her breath, but Hugh answered, "We've met before. How do you do, Judith?"

He was so touchingly, funnily formal that Judy wanted to throw her arms around him, and yet when he said her name—_Judith_—it sounded so intimate, so personal, that it gave her goose bumps. She wanted to say something but she could not think of what to say, and then Suzanne was clapping her hands and directing everyone into the parlor to take up their instruments.

Judy sat with Uncle Sid and the others thought her a very rapt listener, but the truth was that she hardly heard anything besides Hugh's beautiful piano. She watched him—how strong and serious he looked! How talented he was! She was almost moved to tears by his playing. It seemed impossible that he could be her age and yet be so good at something. When the musicians finally laid their instruments down, and Suzanne turned to Judy and told her she must play, Judy's face blazed and she shook her head.

How could she play after _that_?

"Come on, Judy," Danny wheedled, and ever Bernice said, "_Do_ play, please do." She was still protesting when Hugh said,

"I'd like to hear you."

Judy wished that the floor would open up and swallow her. She wished that she had never agreed to come, never taken up the guitar, never met Suzanne Douglas in the first place!

But they were all looking at her, expectantly. "All right," she Judy grimly, and reached for her guitar. Her hands shook so badly while she tuned each string, painstakingly. When finally she could buy herself no more time she said, "I suppose—I'll play a song for Suzanne, since she's been so nice to arrange this meeting for us." Her voice was wavering all over the place. "I learned it last summer, and I hope I remember it. It's by Mr. Leonard Cohen. I have the album of it at home. So—I'm going to play Suzanne—I mean the song 'Suzanne'—not the person. Of course." She wanted to kill herself! What a stupid thing to say! Of _course_ a song—you couldn't _play _a person!

He must think her an idiot. She was glad her back was to Hugh and she could not see his face.

She strummed the first few notes and was surprised that her fingers seemed to remember what to do. She sang,

_Suzanne takes you down, _

_To a place by a river_

_And she feeds you tea and oranges_

_That come all the way from China_

_And you want to travel with her_

_And you want to travel blind…_

Her voice straightened out after the first few notes and she found that she could play a little easier, now, that she had started. She gained confidence, and was surprised at how pure and sweet each note sounded. What a beautiful song this was! How nice it was to play it!

She was even more surprised when, at the start of the second verse, she heard the piano join in the melody. She almost faltered but then she heard a deep voice take up the words and all at once she remembered, and she sang along with Hugh Lilly:

_Suzanne takes your hand_

_And she leads you to the river…_

And all the while Judy played and sang she felt a glow begin at her toes and work its way up her body. Bernice and Danny were listening with true admiration on their faces and Uncle Sid had his arm casually along the back of Suzanne's chair and Judy was singing with Hugh,

_They are leaning out for love _

_And they will lean that way forever_

And she felt the happiest she had ever been, and she was _glad_ for the first time she had been sent away to Coventry, and she thanked Everett Miles from the bottom of her toes for being 'bad news' and making it so that she could come here, and meet these lovely people and make this lovely music. Such lovely music!

She never wanted it to end except she _did_, for she knew when she set her guitar down and looked over at Hugh he would be smiling at her, and they would be friends from that moment on, and maybe, one day, something more.

And that is the very way it happened: The music ended, and everyone applauded and Judy looked over at Hugh and he smiled. And suddenly everything in the world seemed possible.


	10. Changes for Betsey

And all at once, the Bay Shore, which had seemed the dullest place on earth, suddenly was a paradise for Judy

And all at once, the Bay Shore, which had seemed the dullest place on earth, suddenly was a paradise for Judy. She woke every morning with the sun, smiling, and the family heard her singing in the shower. Even Little Mary couldn't match her. She went around in a dreamy state all day, and spent an hour or two every afternoon in the garden with her guitar. Judy was surprised to find how much she remembered from her old lessons, and she became adept at picking out melodies of popular songs and adding her own variations on them. She even started keeping a notebook filled with songs she had written herself.

"She's a changed girl," said Aunt Winnie wonderingly. "I wonder what on earth has made the difference."

The twins exchanged knowing glances. Their mother was busy with running the household, but everyone else knew that Judy's good mood had coincided directly with Hugh Lilly's daily visits.

He came almost every evening and he and Judy would walk into town together and see a movie, go skating, or just sit together in the little park and talk. At least, Hugh would talk. At first Judy felt so shy that she could barely string two words together—she, Judy! Shy! As shy as Betsey, even, when she had always been the boldest of the two by far. Even Betsey would be able to say _something _worth listening to. Judy was at once all happiness and all despair. He couldn't like her if she acted so stupid—and yet, he _did_ seem to like her because he kept coming round.

How much older he seemed, though he was Judy's age exactly. (They had found that their birthdays were only a few days apart! Imagine!). He seemed older than Everett, too, though Everett was eighteen while Hugh was only sixteen. He was so serious, so determined about his music, so interested in his books, and yet at times he could laugh until his eyes grew bright and dimples appeared in his cheeks.

Hugh wanted to be a musician. He _was_ a musician. But he wanted to study at Julliard one day. "I can't remember a time when there wasn't music in my life," he told Judy. He had a plan; he practiced every day for four hours, but he also was determined to study hard and make good grades in case his dream didn't work out. He was practical that way and Judy, who had once thought practicality of any sort the worst of all vices, suddenly became admiring of it.

He asked Judy what she wanted to do with her life. "I don't know," Judy said, slowly. She had never really considered it before. When she thought about growing up she had always imagined wearing lots of pretty dresses, drinking martinis in painted glasses, and hosting parties full of heaps of fun and lively gossip. But now she rather thought—well—she admired Suzanne so much. And Suzanne taught music, and wrote articles on music for magazines. She didn't seem to care anything about clothes or parties or chatter. She cared about _people_. In fact, the only person Judy knew who wore sparkling gowns and drank martinis and wore makeup and gossiped was—well, it was May Binnie.

Suzanne—she didn't seem to have as much time for Suzanne now that Hugh had come into her life. But somehow it was all right. She still ran up to Long Lonely nearly every night and sometimes they repeated their musicale—but often in the middle of things she and Hugh would slip off to watch the stars from the top of Long Lonely Hill. Suzanne watched through the window at the two figures, standing so close. Hugh had his arm around Judy's shoulders and was pointing out Orion's belt.

"I've been jilted," she said, smiling, at Sid Gardiner, as she washed a dinner plate and handed it to him to dry. "I'm lucky you're here, Sid, or I should be left alone entirely."

Sid took the plate from her and their fingers brushed. They both pretended not to notice.

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On Saturday Aunt Rae phoned up Pat and asked if she might take Betsey shopping in the afternoon. Pat Gordon laughed. "It's really up to Betsey, Cuddles dear." Pat was up to her elbows in a new recipe and so the glamorous Rae Hamilton did not begrudge the old nickname.

"But I really don't _need_ anything," Betsey said, doubtfully, when Aunt Rae put the proposition to her. As a rule, she disliked shopping. Judy adored it, and was usually Aunt Rae's partner in crime. But Betsey didn't—well, she didn't _not_ care about clothes. It was only that she never knew what to buy. Every school year she went down to Miss Ida's dress shop and bought three identical cotton dresses, two kilts, one brown and one green, and a lot of white blouses with Peter Pan collars, and she was set for the school year. Judy had stopped shopping at Miss Ida's years ago.

Aunt Rae tinkled a laugh. "Betsey, dear, if everyone waited until they _needed_ something to go shopping, most people would have very little at all. I want to treat you, and I won't take no for an answer. I'll be over in a jiff. See you soon."

Betsey supposed that there was no choice, when Aunt Rae put it that way.

It _was_ nice to see Aunt Rae—dear, pretty, Aunt Rae, with her golden bob and her large, youthful eyes. Today she was wearing a purple skirt and an orange blouse—a combination that Betsey would have thought garish on anybody else, but on Aunt Rae, it worked. She had a large purple-patterened scarf over her hair and sunglasses that took over most of her face, like Jacqueline Kennedy's. Betsey felt drab and colorless in her pink skirt and yellow shirt—and—well, _babyish_. She flipped the visor down and studied her face in the mirror as they drove along. So _plain_. She flipped it back up in annoyance with herself.

"Have you heard from Judy lately?" Aunt Rae asked, as they drove along.

Betsey squirmed, thinking of the pile of letters in her desk drawer. Six of them—all addressed to Everett—and all as-of-yet undelivered. "I had a letter from her yesterday," she said. "She seems to be having a good time."

"I don't doubt it," Aunt Rae said, parking neatly and getting out, swinging her handbag over her shoulder. "There's no place more enchanting than the island. Well, any news on 'the Great Romance?'"

That is what Aunt Rae called Everett-and-Judy. Betsey sometimes expected that Aunt Rae was not as disapproving of Everett as mother and father. Aunt Rae said that most girls had to fall in love with someone entirely unsuitable at least once in their lives, so that they could know The Real Thing when it came along. But mother had only pointed out, gently: "You and I didn't, Rae."

"I don't know how it's going," Betsey said, truthfully. Judy's letters, which had been full of Everett at first, had tapered down to nothing. She hadn't mentioned him at all in her last. Betsey could only suppose that poor Judy had given up home and fancied herself quite abandoned. She wondered what Judy would say if she could see those letters she had sent hidden away in Betsey's drawer.

"Alas, the course of true love never did run smooth," Aunt Rae quoted, and then she laughed. "Here we are, Betsey, and where would you like to go first?"

"Well," said Betsey, "I'd like to pick up some notebooks, for school…"

"Notebooks! We're not shopping for notebooks today! You're going to be a junior this year, Bets—and that means spring formals and winter socials—not to mention Little Mary's wedding at the end of summer. I want to get you a lot of nice things to wear."

"Oh, no!" cried Betsey, in consternation, but Aunt Rae was already headed toward the Hip Shop, a bright colorful boutique full of bright, colorful clothes. It was one of Judy's favorite stores. Betsey did not know quite how to say that she didn't shop here—would be much more comfortable at Miss Ida's. So she only followed Aunt Rae into the shop.

There was loud rock and roll playing over the speakers, and a couple of girls were flicking through a rack of minidresses and exclaiming over them. Aunt Rae marched right up beside them and pulled out a teal-colored outfit.

"This is your color, Betsey," Aunt Rae said. "Look how delicious it is!"

Betsey fingered the short skirt a little uncertainly. "It's _awfully_ short…"

"Nonsense!" Aunt Rae said crisply. "You're young and you have the legs for it. Betsey, darling, don't take this the wrong way—but you can't go on wearing these little round-collared things. You are a beautiful girl, no matter what you wear—but if I've learned anything in my life it's that people _do_ look at what's on the outside, before they look in. It's true—a sad truth—but true. People will never bother getting to know how adorable you are if you hide under a bushel all the time. And people don't _want_ to know someone who doesn't make an _effort_."

Betsey stood in the store and blinked back tears. Aunt Rae did not mean to hurt her. And she was right. It was only that sometimes being told things very plainly hurt a little.

"Now," said Aunt Rae, putting an arm around her and hugging her close, "What do you say: do you like this lemon color or the blue?"

"Blue," Betsey said, squaring her shoulders. "And—and Aunt Rae…?"

"Yes?"

"I—I wouldn't mind trying on the pink, either."

"That's my girl!"

When they left they had a huge bag full of skirts and dresses—white jeans and little fuzzy angora sweaters—a sleek strapless rose gown with silver heels—headbands and Keds and handbags and a gay, cheerful necklace of orange beads that brought out just the merest reddish tints of Betsey's dark hair. "And now, makeup," said Aunt Rae decisively.

They found another shop and spent an hour with a cosmetician, who showed Betsey how to put just the littlest blue shadow at the corners of her eyes, to make them bigger and bluer, how to dab mascara on the tips of her lashes and a little pale pink gloss on her lips. When Betsey turned to the mirror she almost didn't recognize herself.

"Why, I look like Judy!" she cried.

"You _are_ identical twins," Aunt Rae pointed out, grinning.

Betsey threw her arms around her aunt. "Thank you, dearest of Aunt Raes," she said. "You were right, and—and…"

"And?"

"And…well, I feel…it might sound silly, but I feel…as though my outside and my inside match, now."

Aunt Rae hugged her tight and said, "You're beautiful through and through, Elizabeth Gordon."

At home Betsey ran up to her room and changed into her new white shorts and a loose blouse patterned all over with different-colored polka-dots. She slipped her feet into her new white Keds, and dropped the orange beads over her head. Another dab of lipstick—and she grabbed the packet of letters from her desk drawer.

"Where is the child going?" Hilary asked, as Betsey flew by him and out the door.

"I don't know," said Pat, a little confusedly.

Hilary looked at the little retreating figure and back to his wife. "Pat," he said, "That _was_ Betsey—wasn't it?"

"I—don't—know," said Pat again, and she laughed.

Betsey ran all the way to the library and climbed the stairs to the reading room on the second floor. There was Everett, just where she had thought she might find him, his black hair shining as he bent over his book. Betsey threw the packet of letters down before him.

"These are for you," she said triumphantly, and felt immediately as though she had shed a heavy, weary load. Everett blinked up at her with dark eyes and she smiled. She didn't feel bashful at all, even though she had hardly ever spoken to Everett before—even though he was handsome. Devilishly so! But Betsey did not blush, or stammer, or look away. Oh, Aunt Rae had been right—what a difference a little confidence made!

She walked home, and there was a new bounce in her step.


	11. Courage and Defeat

The next morning Betsey awoke with a feeling of excitement

Betsey awoke with a feeling of excitement. For the first time in weeks—months—maybe years, the day seemed like a thing to look forward to rather than a thing to be afraid of. She donned her new bathing suit—one piece—but still adorable, lime green with pink ribbons at the hips. She pulled on one of her new minidresses—the beautiful teal one—and told herself _not_ to tug at the hem. As Aunt Rae said, she had the legs for it. She stepped into her espadrilles and tied the ribbons carefully at her legs. Then she grabbed a towel, and went downstairs.

"Dad—could I have the car today?"

Hilary looked up, astonished. Judy was the twin who pestered him about the car—he had taught both girls to drive earlier in the year, and although Betsey had been perfectly adequate at it, she preferred not to do it. He lowered his paper and looked at her, a little warily.

"Where are you going, Bets?"

"I am going to pick up Patty Kelly and Joanie Morrison, and we are going to the beach," said Betsey resolutely.

"And do they know you're coming?"

"Yes." Betsey had set it all up the night before. Oh, she had felt something of her old fear when she had dialed Patty's and Joanie's numbers—she had almost hung up—but both girls had seemed pleased to hear from her, and when she had issued her invitation both girls were eager to go.

"Imagine that," said Hilary, standing at the porch, watching Betsey—Betsey!—back carefully down the driveway and drive off down the street.

"Imagine that," said Pat, almost reverently. She clasped her hands and said a silent prayer that the girls would be kind to Betsey—would be sweet to her, even. Betsey, Pat knew, needed a friend.

But she needn't have worried. The girls chattered all the way to the shore, stopping off to fill the cooler with sodas and sandwiches, and buy heaps and heaps of fashion magazines to leaf through while they tanned. "That's nice," said Patty, sounding a little surprised, when Judy took off her dress to reveal her bathing suit. "I don't remember seeing it before. Is it Judy's?"

"No, it's mine," said Betsey. "I got it at the Hip Shop."

"You're joking! Oh, I love that store."

"I do, too," said Joanie Morrison, "But—and you guys can't tell _anybody_ I said this—sometimes I _still_ like to go to Miss Ida's. Some of the stuff at the Hip Shop can be a little…"

"Too, too utterly?" finished Betsey, and the girls smiled at each other. The first little ties of friendship sprang up between them.

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At the very same time Judy and Hugh Lilly were walking together in the late afternoon sun along the shore at Carmody. Judy was trying very much not to notice how cold the water was on her bare feet—or how Hugh's hand had somehow wrapped around hers, without her even noticing at first. But she was acutely aware of it, now, and she was glad for it: without it, she was so happy she might drift away into the clouds.

So it was a shame that Hugh had to spoil things by talking about the end of summer.

"I always forget how sorry I am when summer goes," he said, taking his hand away for just long enough to brush the curls from his eyes. "But it's already nearly to July—and August will come like a flash—and we'll be back to the States and you'll be back in Vancouver."

Judy plummeted to earth.

"Oh, _don't _let's talk about it now," she said hastily, trying to recapture some of the romance of the evening. "I don't even want to _think_ about going home."

"You don't?" Hugh asked, with that curious, slant-wise look of his. Such a charming way he had of looking at the world from the corners of his eyes—as if the world were sly thing and he was hoping to catch it unawares. "I should think you would be eager to get home. You must be missing your parents and your sister very much."

"I am," Judy admitted. "It's just that things were—a little—_strained_ at home, when I left."

"Why?" Hugh had a blunt way of asking things, that made it impossible to shilly-shally around. When he _did_ look at you dead on, you always felt you must tell the truth very plainly and simply. And so Judy told him,

"I was sent away, you know, Hugh. You needn't pretend you haven't heard. I know everyone's been talking about it. And the Binnie girls have made it their main purpose in life that everyone should know my disgrace."

"No—I didn't know. I don't associate with the Binnie girls, and I don't listen to 'talk.' Why did you have to leave?"

Was it Judy's imagination or did the sunset seem a bit less vivid? The air seemed cooler for sure. She sat down on a rock and looked out to sea. Suppose Hugh wouldn't want to associate with her if he knew the truth, that she was nearly engaged—oh, all right, technically engaged—to another man. He might want to stop their evening walks, and Judy could not risk that!

So—she lied.

"My grades at school weren't great," she fibbed, thinking quickly. "Mother and Dad were quite upset. I—I was in some danger of flunking, you see. And mother's always talking about the island 'work ethic'…and I suppose she thought it would rub off on me if she sent me here."

There! That was better than telling Hugh that she had been sent away because of Ev. He _couldn't_ know about Everett. Why, Hugh might even think—even though Judy _hadn't_, and wouldn't_ dream_ of such a thing—well, it was better this way. And if she didn't meet his eyes she could get away with it. Judy looked down at her hands in her lap.

"What class was it?" Hugh wanted to know.

Judy thought quickly. "Geometry," she said.

"I aced geometry," Hugh told her. "If you'd like, I'll help you, Judy. I'd _like_ to help you. Please."

Oh, how kind and good and—and _decent_—he was! Judy felt ashamed of herself—and felt an amazing tenderness toward him—and very quickly she leaned over and kissed him. Just briefly—but how nice it was! When she opened her eyes, Hugh's were very soft. Judy snuggled up to him, but…

"I think we should get home," he said. "It's beginning to get dark."

The Bay Shore was all lighted up and Ken's car was in the drive, along with Uncle Frank's. Judy could see everyone gathered in the dining room. Aunt Winnie and Little Mary had been experimenting with recipes for wedding-cake all day, and Judy had promised to help pick the one that was lightest, most delicious, most abso-posi-lutely scrumptious. She turned to Hugh.

"Do come in," she said, "Everyone would like to see you, I know." And she thought of that brief kiss and she knew she wasn't ready to let him go for the night, either. She wanted more of him, more, more, more! She felt she could never have enough. The summer _had_ to last forever, it couldn't ever end.

"Come on," she said, and she pulled him from the car, and they ran up to the door hand in hand.

Just as Judy was about to open it, the door flew open and there stood Rachel, her curls flying. "We've been waiting ages for you!" she pronounced. "You'll never believe what happened!"

Win pushed her out of the way to tell the rest of the story.

"It happened around dinnertime," she gasped, a little out-of-breath with the excitement of it all. "We were just sitting down to eat and the phone rang and Frankie got up to answer it, and oh, Judy, can't you guess who it was?"

"No," said Judy. "Was it Betsey? Mother?"

"It was Everett!" Rachel cried. "The man you've been positively _pining_ for for weeks! Everett, Judy—your fiancé!"

It was very quiet out on the porch. The only sounds came from inside. Uncle Frank said something in a low voice and everyone laughed. Judy's face flamed. She felt Hugh slide his hand from hers. He moved a little away, into the shadow.

"Come in, come in," Win was crying, "It's early yet—only, let's see—one, two, three—four o'clock out there! You can call him back! Dad said you could use the long distance."

"Win," Judy said, pleadingly, willing her with her eyes not to make it any worse than it already was.

"You come in, too, Hugh," Rachel said, opening the door wider. "Father has that record you wanted to borrow in the study."

Judy held her breath, but then she heard Hugh say, in a distant sort of voice, "I think I'll run over for it another time. I promised to have the car back, you see. But thank your father for me. Goodnight, Win, Rachel. Judith."

His voice was curt and cool when he said her name. Judy watched helplessly as he walked back to the car, got in, and drove away into the night. His kiss still burned on her lips, but all she could taste was ashes.


	12. Judy Faces the Truth

Win and Rachel were besides themselves over what had happened

Win and Rachel were besides themselves over what had happened. They came to Judy's room that night, in identical fuzzy pink bathrobes, miserable to their cores. For all their differences the Russell twins shared the same loyal heart, and they loved their Judy as a sister. They hadn't thought, Win explained. They should have known, Rachel said.

"We're sorry, Judy," they said together.

But Judy would not let them apologize. "It was my fault," she said, just as miserably. She should not have lied to Hugh. She knew that he was a man who valued honesty, and she should have been honest with him about Everett. Everett—all this fuss over Everett Miles! Judy wished now that she had never met him. She saw that she had only been playing at love, with Everett. Oh, how she writhed over her behavior, past and present! She had riled up everything at home—and now she had messed everything with Hugh.

She did not sleep that night and could not eat the next day. She spent the morning in her room, writing letters, and an hour or two in the garden with her guitar. But all the songs she played were melancholy and she did not play them well. Her fingers seemed made of lead.

So did her heart.

She went up at lunchtime to talk it over with Suzanne—how understanding Suzanne was!—but she did not mince words. "A lie is a ruinous thing—for once you have told _one_ you are never safe again, Judy-girl. One lie can break through years of trust among the closest friends."

Judy groaned. She had only known Hugh a couple of weeks.

"But apologies are rarely the _wrong_ thing to do," Suzanne cautioned. "And speaking from your heart is always justified. Go to him, Judy, and tell him what you feel."

Judy put it off until evening. After supper she borrowed Little Mary's bicycle and pedaled down the twilit red roads to Silver Bush. Mrs. Lilly greeted her kindly—so kindly that Judy knew she mustn't know what had happened. If she did, she would know that Judy did not deserve kindness.

Hugh came downstairs and together they walked out into the 'dim.' They walked for so long in silence that Judy began to think they had both lost their powers of speech. Would Hugh never talk to her? Was he _that_ mad?

"Hugh," she said finally, desperately, when they had stopped on the banks of the river Jordan. "Please. You must let me tell you everything—explain. _Please_."

He said nothing, but his eyes flashed. Judy went on,

"I should have told you everything, from the beginning. I see that, now. But I can't go back and do things right. I can only go forward. So I'll tell you. I was engaged to a boy back home—that's why I was sent away—my parents didn't approve. But it wasn't real. I mean, we were _really_ engaged—Ev asked me if I'd marry him someday—but the _feeling _wasn't there. Not the right sort of feeling. I didn't know it then but I do now because…because…"

_From your heart_, echoed Suzanne's voice in her mind.

"Because I'm falling in love with you," Judy finished. She said it very simply and plainly. She did not try to act coy, or bat her eyelashes. She just told him. There was too much at stake to play around.

Hugh sighed and shredded a blade of grass with his fingers. He chewed his lip, and appeared lost in thought. Judy began to feel very cold. Not embarrassed—not angry—just cold, and lost. She had offered him her heart and he would not take it. Perhaps he didn't want it. And he was not offering his in return.

Finally Hugh said,

"Dad always has a saying, about the 'right time and place' for everything. He'd always prattle on about it if any of us failed a test or didn't make a team. I never really understood what he meant until now, but I see that he's quite right. There is a time and place for everything and sometimes it's not exactly convenient…"

"What are you saying?" cried Judy. "Speak plain, Hugh! This isn't like you, to pussyfoot around."

He looked at her straight and said, "Judy, I've been falling in love with you by inches for weeks now. I never even knew how much until last night, when I found out you belonged to another man."

"But I don't belong to him!" Judy cried. "I wrote to Ev this morning and broke it off, everything, kaput! I would have sent his ring back except I was terrified it would get lost in the mail! And you needn't act like having a boyfriend is any _crime_. I bet you've dated other girls before."

"I have," Hugh said. "But I wasn't _engaged_ to any of them. And—they were different, Judy."

"What do you _mean_?"

"I don't want to hurt you," Hugh said, tossing the grass into the water and pulling up another blade. "Judy, I _like_ your spunk and your liveliness and your vivacity and your charm. Being with you is _fun_. And you're talented—very talented—though you act like you don't know it. But I don't want a girl who runs around in inches and inches of makeup—who always has to wear the shortest skirt and the most fashionable clothes. It's—you're—well, it's a little superficial. And it's _beneath_ you, Judy."

Judy _was_ hurt. "Your own _mother_ looks like a page out of Vogue magazine!" she cried, wounded.

Hugh nodded. "Yes, but mother doesn't let those things consume her," he said. "She isn't—frivolous."

Judy began to cry. He thought her—frivolous! Oh, he hated her! She had never felt so rejected in her life.

"Don't," he said, pulling her into a fierce embrace. "Don't cry, Judy. I hate to see you cry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did. Perhaps we don't know each other that well, yet."

"We _do_," Judy sobbed. "I've told you heaps of things about myself that I've never told _anybody_ else. Not even Betsey. Oh, Hugh, I can change! I _will_ change! I'll be whatever you want, I promise. Would you want me for—a girlfriend—if I changed?"

Hugh said, "I don't want you to change for _me_, Judy. And don't you think you should spend a little time just on your own, instead of flying from boyfriend to boyfriend?"

Judy thought long and hard. Oh, why did things have to be so bungled up? But everything he said was true. She pulled away and wiped her eyes. Finally, she even managed to laugh.

"I guess your father is right—if we'd only met in a different time or place…"

"But we can still be friends," Hugh said quickly. "I wouldn't want to lose you as a friend, Judith."

Judy biked home feeling very blue. Several times her tears almost blinded her and she had to pull off the road. "Friends," she would say, every so often, to herself. "Friends." Well, she supposed that being friends was _something_.

And something was better than nothing. That was a fact she could cling to.


	13. Betsey Loses Her Heart

Betsey went to her first real party in July

Betsey went to her first real party in July. Bobbie O'Neill was having her 'Sweet Sixteen' and Bobbie was the most popular girl in school—besides maybe Judy—and Judy's Sweet Sixteen back in March had kept everyone talking through the remainder of the school year. Of course it had been Betsey's Sweet Sixteen, too—but she had spent most of the night trying to avoid talking to people, to get away from all the noise and chatter. She had almost all of the party holed up in Father's study, with the latest Andrew Stuart novel.

Bobbie was fiercely competitive, and she was determined that her party would out-do every other one that had ever been. Certainly any other one that had ever been thrown by any of the other junior-class girls. The whole house, Pat reported, after going over to lend Mrs. O'Neill a recipe, was being cleaned and decorated—professionally—and Betsey could see from her room over to the next block, where a big white tent was being erected by the swimming pool. All day she had seen people going in and out with pink roses, pink balloons, pink streamers. Even the musicians in the twelve piece band, Patty Kelly reported, were going to be wearing pink bowties and cummerbunds.

Bobbie's favorite color was pink. The invitation Betsey had gotten had been printed on heavy pink cardstock with lime green calligraphy.

"White tie!" Hilary Gordon exclaimed, turning it over in his hands. "Who on earth ever heard of a bunch of teenagers dressing up in white tie for a birthday party!"

"Hush," Pat said exasperatedly. "It's fun for them; it gives them a taste of being grown up."

"I'll never understand these kids today." Hilary threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Pat—my Pattest of Pats—am I horribly fussy and old-fashioned? I have the suspicion I might be getting to be what Judy would call 'a square.'"

"You are," Pat said, as he kissed her throat. "But I wouldn't have it any other way, Jingle darling."

Betsey spent a long time getting ready for the party. Aunt Rae had been right when she said Betsey must buy this lovely, strapless rose dress, these silver heels. She applied her makeup in the soft way that was becoming second nature, and twisted her dark hair into an updo. When she finally turned back to the mirror she was so surprised. Would she ever get used to this new Betsey, this softly glowing Betsey? This Betsey who stood with her shoulders thrown back, her head lifted high?

She suddenly had a mighty pang of loneliness. Here she was, getting dressed up to go to a party, and she was _lonely. _Mother and dad were right downstairs. But Betsey wanted _Judy. _What did anything matter, any of these lovely changes, if Judy wasn't around to share them with her? Betsey's eyes blurred as she thought of how happy Judy would be to see her like this. For a moment she could almost hear Judy singing in the bathroom across the hall, calling dad to come and lift the bed so she could find her missing shoe! But no—it was only dad listening to the radio downstairs. Judy wasn't here—she was miles and miles away.

"You're going to ruin your make-up," came mother's soft voice from the doorway. Betsey stopped in the middle of wiping her eyes and laughed. "I was just missing Judy," she said.

"I know you do," Pat sighed, and sat on the bed. "I'm missing her, too. I wish—well. I didn't come in here to get weepy. I wanted to give you a present." She handed Betsey a velvet box. "Your father and I were saving them for you and Judy's graduation next year—but I think they'll do for tonight."

Betsey lifted the lid and found a string of beautiful pearls, shining softly in the lamplight. "Oh, mother," she breathed, "They're beautiful."

"They belonged to _my_ mother," Pat said. "She had a double strand and I've always thought it worked out nicely—one strand for you, and one for Judy. Here." She put the necklace around Betsey's neck and fixed the clasp. "How lovely you are!"

Betsey touched her pearls reverently. "Mother," she said. "Thank you."

Pat kept her hand on her daughter's neck for just a moment longer. How well she could remember the girls when they had been small, helpless little things! And now they were nearly grown. Soon they would be going off into the world, each to make her own way. What joys awaited them—what little heartbreaks—what battles and triumphs?

"Betsey," Pat said suddenly. "I want you to know, dear—that I am proud of you—and that I think you are becoming a wonderful young woman. But—your father and I—we have always loved you just as much, no matter how you look on the outside."

"Oh, _mother_," said Betsey, exasperated. "I _know_ that!"

They embraced and then Betsey looked at the clock on her dresser. "I'm going to be late!" she cried. "And that would never do!"

Pat smiled as the girl ran downstairs and called goodbye to her father. She thought again of her girls—as they had been, and as they were now.

"One thing's for sure," she said, to herself. "No matter the fussing, or fighting: they've always been _dear_."

xxxxxxxxxxx

Betsey was enjoying herself heartily. She didn't lack for partners and had danced every dance, except for the one she had spent in the powder room, helping the birthday girl with her hair. Bobbie was resplendent in pink chiffon, but she had looked enviously at Betsey's dress all the same.

"Perhaps I should have chosen a darker color," she said, thinking about how striking little Betsey Gordon looked in that deep rose!

Betsey shrugged. "This suits you," she said, to Bobbie. Once she would have blushed and stammered and said something to put herself down, _Oh, I don't look very nice_, or _this is just an old thing_ but tonight she didn't. She gave Bobbie a friendly kiss and affixed the brightly painted comb in her blonde hair, that had been Betsey's birthday gift.

"If you'd picked another color _that_ would go so nicely," she pointed out, and Bobbie felt better immediately.

Betsey had to fly—she had promised Tim Johnson the next dance. Betsey did not especially _like_ Tim but he was the captain of the rugby team and devastatingly handsome. He had never noticed her before, and so it had been the pinnacle of her success when he came over, stammering and blushing, and asked her to dance. As though he was as nervous around her as she had used to be around everybody else!

"Certainly," she said graciously, and she let him lead her onto the makeshift dance floor that had been set up for the evening.

While they were dancing Tim talked of rugby until Betsey's eyes glazed over. _Couldn't_ he talk about anything else? He stepped on her toes and she tried not to notice. She would think of something else. She was so deep in that thought of something else that she almost didn't hear Tim say,

"And there's Everett Miles with his new girlfriend…"

"_What_?" Betsey exclaimed. She pulled away and cast her eyes about the backyard until she saw them—Everett, in his regular old jeans and his leather jacket, and there! Tim was right! There was a stunning blond on his arm, whom Betsey recognized from school. She had been a freshman last year.

"That…rat!" she cried, so angry that she didn't even notice when Tim stepped on her feet again. "Oh, I could kill him! Excuse me, Tim. I'm afraid I _can't_ dance anymore right now."

She started over to where Everett was standing by the refreshments table, and then stopped in her tracks. What could she say to him? She felt frozen for a moment, but then she had an idea. She ran back to the powder room and took her hair down, and tousled it in the way that Judy did. She added a ring of darker makeup around her eyes, and a firmer, darker coat of lipstick.

She surveyed her reflection in the mirror. _Could_ she pull it off? She gave the mirror a flirtatious smile. Judy's reflection smiled back at her.

Betsey strode back outside in her sister's way, swinging her hips just a little. "Ev!" she cried, in Judy's breathy tone. "Aren't you surprised to see me back so soon? Oh darling, I'm glad you're here! I was beginning to think you'd never come!"

The blond's head went up sharply at the word 'darling' but her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She stepped closer to Everett so Betsey did, too, and from somewhere summoned Judy's careless laugh. "I don't believe we know each other," she said, snuggling up to Everett. "I'm Judy Gordon—Everett's fiancé!"

"Judy?" Everett said, faintly.

"Fiancé!" cried the girl, dropping Everett's arm as though she'd been scalded. "You didn't say anything about having a fiancé."

"I don't," Everett said, shifting his slow, black gaze to Betsey.

"Oh, you dear, darling little joker!" Betsey cried, and then, because the blond girl was looking doubtful she stood on her toes and leaned up and kissed Everett Miles full on the mouth!

It was a long, slow kiss. It was the first time Betsey had ever kissed or been kissed by anyone and so her heart pounded in her ears. At first she thought, _I wonder what all the fuss is about_, but then an electric sort of feeling zinged from her toes to the top of her head and she thought, _Oh. _Oh! _This_ was it, this is why people wrote songs and poems and wept and laughed and went on waking up day after day!

It seemed a shame that it ever had to end but it did. The blond girl backed away, hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

"I'm sorry," she said to Betsey. "Really, I didn't know. I must have gotten the wrong end of the stick. I'm sorry—really!"

"It's quite all right," said Betsey, feeling as though she might faint. "As long as it doesn't happen again." The girl disappeared into the throng of partygoers and Betsey wobbled on her feet. Oh, to be back home in her room with a book! Everett was looking at her very hard. Betsey tried to smile but couldn't quite manage it. Her legs went out very suddenly from under her and she sat down hard on a chair by the dance floor.

"I suppose this means you don't want to dance, _darling_," Everett said.

Betsey could only shake her head no. She did not want to dance. "I think I'll go back to my friends," she said weakly.

Everett leaned down and put his fingers under her chin. Oh, if he were only a little less handsome she might be able to bear it! His fingers seemed to go straight through her skin to her heart.

"All right—Betsey," he said, and he grinned and walked away.

Betsey sat up in her chair, startled. Oh—had he known it was her all along? How funny that she did not feel embarrassed, then! Only a little frightened—and under that, a little glad. What a horrid, disloyal sister she was, for feeling glad. Betsey got up and made her way over to the table where she had left her pocketbook. All the while she was thinking—thinking hard about a few things.

For instance: she kept remembering the kiss, and how Everett's arm had tightened for a moment too long around her waist.

If he had known she was Betsey to begin with—well, why had he done that?


	14. Turning Points

Betsey came home from the party so forlorn that Pat and Hilary exchanged worried glances

Betsey came home from the party so forlorn that Pat and Hilary exchanged worried glances. Had—had something happened? Had people been mean to her? "I _don't_ want to talk about it," Betsey said hollowly, and climbed the stairs to her room. She hung her pretty dress up in the closet and spent a long time removing all the traces of makeup from her face. With her lashes pale and her cheeks white, she looked much more like the girl she remembered.

"Hello," she said, to her reflection.

She could not sleep. She tossed and turned. In the morning she left New Betsey in the closet and put on her old, babyish white dress. At the last moment she grabbed a bright scarf and tied it around her waist, but it was her only nod to the girl she had been—last night.

Last night—when Everett Miles had kissed her. In front of everyone. Her very first kiss. Oh, what would Judy say if she knew? Surely she would understand if Betsey explained things.

But what Betsey couldn't explain was the secret thrill that had zoomed from her head to her heart to her toes the moment his lips met hers.

She was wretched. She picked at breakfast and was glad when Dad left for work. Mother hovered around, worriedly, until Betsey finally exploded.

"I _know_ you have a Ladies' Aid meeting today! Just—go—and _stop_ suffocating me!"

Pat went, but with a considerable amount of concern. Betsey had never snapped at her before.

Betsey cleaned up the breakfast dishes and tried to read a bit of _Jane Eyre_. But she could not help thinking that Jane would have disapproved of her. Oh, Jane had loved Mr. Rochester, and Mr. Rochester had been married, but she did not know. And _Mrs. _Rochester had not been Jane's sister—_twin_ sister!

Suddenly Betsey felt cold. It could be that Judy _already_ knew what had happened. She could not explain it but strange things had happened between them before. The time that Judy fell and broke her leg, and Betsey had experienced the exact same pain in the exact same place _at the exact same time_. From miles away! And Judy always seemed to know by instinct what Betsey was thinking. What if, at the moment their lips had met, Judy had felt it and _knew_? What if Judy could hear her thoughts now?

There was a knock on the door. Betsey cast her book aside and went to answer it.

"Hello," said Everett Miles. Was it her imagination or did he sound contrite? And—did he look differently than usual? His hair was slicked back a bit and he had left his leather jacket off. Betsey could not stand the sight of him—could not stand the way her heart beat a crazy mambo of delight at his appearance.

"Go away," she told him. "I don't care what you have to say. I won't forgive you."

"But," he said.

"No!" Betsey exploded. "It was terribly wrong of you to do what you did! _You_ are my _sister's_ _fiancé_. You shouldn't have kissed me!"

She tried to close the door on him but he wedged his foot in and stopped her.

"Wait a minute," he said, "_You_ kissed _me._"

"Well, you shouldn't have let me! You shouldn't have kissed back!"

He grinned. "I did kiss back, didn't I? Bet you weren't expecting that."

"You are a horrid boy. You will break Judy's heart."

"Betsey!" he cried, "Judy _dumped_ me in her last letter!"

Cautiously, Betsey opened the door a crack wider.

"Really?" she asked suspiciously.

He rummaged in his pocket and handed her the evidence. A crumpled letter—stained with something. Smelling faintly of tobacco. But Judy's handwriting—unmistakably Judy's. And—what he said was true. She wrote very clearly that she wanted their 'engagement'—the quotations were Judy's—to end. She did not love him anymore.

"Then why are you here to apologize?" Betsey wondered. "If it's just as you say, you have nothing to be apologizing for."

"Betsey," said Everett, with exaggerated slowness. "I'm not here to apologize."

"Then why are you here."

"To ask you on a date," he said.

xxxxxxxxxx

Judy was standing in front of her closet, staring into the depths, when Aunt Winnie passed by, her arms full of towels. She watched the girl frown and sigh. She had been grumpy for days and now Winnie Russell felt that _something_ must be said. She stepped into the room and ventured, cautiously,

"Is anything wrong, dear?"

Judy only sighed again. "I have nothing to wear," she confessed. "I hate all my clothes."

Winnie had to bite her lips to keep from smiling. If there was one thing Judith Gordon did not lack, it was clothes. Three suitcases' worth—there had hardly been room for them in Little Mary's and the twins' room. They overflowed into the spare bedroom wardrobe and even into the boys' empty bureau drawers.

"You have so many lovely things," Aunt Winnie began, though she really did think that some of Pat's daughter's things were rather—garish.

"They are too—too much," Judy said, as though she'd realized what Aunt Win was thinking. "I wish I had some—some _sensible_ clothes, Aunty. I'm going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe. But I don't think I have the pocket money for more than a few pieces."

Aunt Winnie came and stood by Judith with a critical eye. "I don't think you have to buy _all_ new things," she said, musingly. "Maybe just a piece here and there. Most of your clothes can be made a little more—ordinary—with slight alterations." To show Judy, Winnie removed a spangled skirt from its hanger.

"If we pluck all of the rhinestones off of this—and the plastic flowers—it is really just a sensible white skirt—can be worn with anything." Winnie removed a few sequins, to show Judy how easy it was. "And the neckline on this shirt is awfully low—but I have a little lace in my sewing box. It would be just the thing." Now Winnie was getting into the spirit of things. "These shoes have an awfully high heel—but it can be removed, and sanded down into a pair of adorable flats."

Judy held the shoe and turned it this way and that, considering.

"Do you know what I'd really like?" she asked, a little shyly. "I'd like a few circle skirts—like the kind the twins wear—all of my skirts are minis, and I—it isn't exactly what I want to convey."

Aunt Winnie considered. "You have the legs to pull them off. But I understand—it would be nice to have a few different things for a change. Well, I have some fabric in my sewing room—a nice, bright cotton—that would be all right for skirts. And they are quite easy to make, really. I could teach you, Judy."

"I'd like that," Judy said, smiling for the first time that day.

She spent the morning going over her outfits and making adjustments. Everytime she removed a spangle or a sequin or a ribbon or covered up a low neckline, she felt it a bit in the core of her heart. But she also thought of Hugh Lilly's face—and felt a lightening, a lifting.

She came down to lunch in a knee length navy skirt and a plain white blouse. Her hair was scraped back into a ponytail and she wore a pair of flat white shoes on her feet. Win and Rachel exchanged glances and looked back at her balefully.

"What's wrong?" Judy cried.

"No-thing," said Rachel, after a pause. "It's just that—you don't look like _you_, Judy."

Judy caught sight of herself in the mirror over the sideboard. She had thought she looked like Betsey, but now she saw that really she looked as drab and plain as a postulate nun!

"Hold that thought," she said to the twins, and ran upstairs again.

She put on a very little makeup. Just a swipe of mascara and a soft pink on her lips. She shook her hair out so that it was wild and free about her face—and then she clipped a bright red plastic flower by her face. Usually she would have worn the flower with her mini-skirt—her platform sandals—and a whole lot of bracelets and necklaces. It would have gotten quite lost in all that. Now it added just a splash of color to her outfit, and brought out the red tints in her hair.

"That is better, I think," said Judy, grinning at her reflection.

"Loads better," said Rachel, relieved.

"Moderation in all things," cautioned Win.


End file.
